Give me words?

Looking For Safe Under My Quilt

I’m 18, and I think the world is over. I’ve left hand-prints in sand and snow, though neither were as cold as you leaving. Now I’m 12 while kissing carpet because I need to be thinner, and my dad doesn’t understand hidden apple cores mean help not hurt. I’m writing about love again. What else is there worth scribbling about? Summer plays a game of cards and loses time. I’m nearly 19, whether or not I’m beautiful inwards and outwards is brought into question. If you touch my books I’ll maim you beyond recognition.

This time I’m 8 while worlds end, would I be, “happier somewhere else?” 10 years later a suitcase is bought filled with broken bottle dreams. People keep leaving, so I chain them inside poetry to make them stay. I’m jumped to soon, there’s no extra stair, angry wasp frightened all the time. Excuse me sir, where do you keep the quiet? Where are the people who stay?

Shiver

A girl with eyelashes made of knives tells you to hush. You’re sitting together in a little wooden room, which the clerk informs me is a shipwrecked coffin. You oblige, and tilt your head to gaze at the goldfish dribbling from the window bowl.

I’m not entirely sure what I need right now, that’s a frightening feeling. I’ve gone from the desire to see every bone in my body, to simply hoping to dissolve.

I’m a pool of misery today.

What a painfully real world I live in.

By Candlelight

How many people have I killed,

While my eyes were closed?

We’ve this penchant, you see

For bones

Because we know when we hear

Those dreaded words,

“The end.”

(As every bedtime story must)

We’re stripped away

All the same

A First Class Guide To Being A World Class Fuck Up

You’re presumably human if you’re reading this, (if you’re a tuna, a lime, or anything else I apologize.) Therefore, you already know what it’s like to be a fuck up, but a world class fuck up? No darling, let me show you how.

Step One: Love something, preferably a human.

This must be love, no liking, adoring, or half-hearted commitments after you’ve had your ice cream will do.

Step Two: Don’t trust it.

Let’s say you’re lucky enough to have the human that you love, love you back. If you’re not then you’re just a lonely bastard and that’s another guide entirely. I digress, do not trust the human that loves you. Despite repeated reassurances that the human loves you, try and push it out of your life.  It will leave in the end anyway, right?

Step Three: The human leaves.

You will wake up every morning, and close your world weary lids every night with the knowledge that it’s your fault. All your fault.

Step Four: Booze, drugs, porn, sleep, addiction, etc.

Slip into oblivion with the help of artificial, non-human love.

Step Five: You’re fucked.

I’m Asking For Directions On The Moon

I’ve planned for years, and have been reduced to moments. For the rest of my life I’ll live from a hippie van, drink coffee, and watch people leave. I’d like to be a writer in the way that paper cranes can’t fly. What should I do with the rest of my life?

On Why Angel Wings Are Unreliable

It’s rained wind chimes for the past few months; we’re drowning in noise and metal. Then, little creature, there was this unbearable silence. Silence so great it swallowed the scattered pearls in the sky, and people were left clinging to remnants of voices long gone. I’d never seen a town so dark. I wish I was a great big secret. I wish that when I did things nobody knew why, and there was mystery, metaphors, and slight longing. My stories are written on my bones, they leak out from my eyes, ebb through the little gaps in my teeth. Don’t let how one person treated you ruin the way you treat everyone else. Some people will leave you little creature, in fact, most will. We live for those who stay.

All of this is the most truthful lie I’ve ever told. It’s a plea, for somebody who doesn’t mind the messiest hair in the world, to come and hold me tonight. It breaks my heart, (you see the puddled pieces there?) that you’ll never know what my bedroom slippers look like. I don’t know what’s going to happen, just that things will, and I’ll inevitably think that I’m going to be alone forever. It’s such a messy world, and I am painfully alive.

I’m really good at screwing myself over.

I can’t deal with characters, they all become me. Me with newspaper shreds of other humans tied to the shins.

You’re Highlighted At The Seams

Pull two strings, ribs unravel

Spine unzipped, femurs unbuttoned

Bones, my darling, bones

We are connected at the soul

Code

Worms eat at my flesh much like every other day. You can only have good days once you’re dead right? I have several confessions to make, the first and foremost being that I hate tea. On days when rain skitters away from us like a shy child I will love you best. I lived all of a cat’s lives twice, and was never small enough.