Tuesday, May 31, 2011

the Hounds

you live in a sandcastle
built of mud and sticks and the words
no one ever said.

a delicate starlet found dead in the tub-;
standing barefoot in your Sunday best, a heroin
halo and an arm full of sunshine.

every morning you hurl yourself into the ocean and
sleep with dead mean at the bottom of the sea
you’re a virus, you’re a prayer, you’re a fox
running from the Hounds.

Monday, May 30, 2011

i know i suck at updating lately, i'm actually putting together a book, or collection, for someone. it's called the Hounds, and i very much love it. I've decided to start another one of some of my best work and a bunch of new pieces, if you guys want to suggest some of your favorites that would be great :)

i love you guys, my followers, you helped me through a really tough point two months ago and life is starting to sort itself out and i feel very inspired.

just, <3.

Friday, May 27, 2011

and i'm staring at your collar bones and 
i think of a sparrow nest there, in the little crook kept safe
by the biggest heart in the world and i think
that i would very much like to kiss you
right now.

i have no haiku
i have no sonnet for you,
i carry only love.

there's a blackbird by the bay window sitting
on an old oil drum that sings her all the songs her
boyfriend doesn't.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

'and life really isn't fair' has it's own tumblr now.


this is still the primary website, this will be updated and the tumblr will only feature the most popular pieces, it would be great if you guys suggested some of your favorites! and if you have tumblr, go follow!
and she makes music because everything else
has a way of letting her down.

Monday, May 23, 2011

The Scientist pt. 1

bit of a break from the short posts;

He runs now, he runs like a fucking dog. It'll hit him in the night,
a book, a shirt,
a single familiar decibel of a voice, and he would take off as if 
the beat of bare feet on pavement
could drown out his whole brain.


"The mother will come back to the nest, we're not supposed to touch it."
"B-but what if she doesn't?"
She looks down at two blue eggs and an hour later he's installing a heat lamp
to a fish tank and she's looking at him, she's looking at him like he's
the greatest thing she's ever seen and he knows no one can ever care about him
like she does. 
That night she lifted her shirt off and he counted her ribs
and decided of a reason he loved her for each.

But she didn't stay gone-
showed up three nights later in the rain
crying for him like a kitten. And he thinks it's worse this way because
she still fits to his chest and opens the blinds and empties the ashtray
that he always forgets about but 
the wound is fresh enough to grab
two mugs rather than one and the same scene projects in the background, a never ending loop all distorted and distant-
like an old movie played underwater 
of tousled hair and sleepy eyes and a good morning kiss
while a phantom sits cross legged on the couch, 
reaches up and whispers
"baby, come lay with me."
He slams the door on purpose.


January, they fought that morning.
He thinks about central park, about sledding and how icy it was and
how she slipped 
and just he stood there, looking down, acutely aware that his reaction at the moment
was quite possibly the single definition of the way he felt,
and didn't move.
She helped herself up and smiled and he saw her heart break
right in front of him.


He thinks that there is cement in his bones and runs
harder because of it.
Legs like sledgehammers tearing up the sidewalk, the whole
damn world crumbling behind his steps. He thinks of paperwork and test tubes.
He thinks of the Sunday mornings and her eyelashes and watermelon
and all those nights they
just talked, turns around at the edge of the block and 
goes back home to a ghost.


It's autumn and it's before he fucked everything up and she's
sleeping in the sun by the back garden.
This must be love because he could have died right then and it would have been okay,
having been in this moment would have been enough.
"Over 30% of American homes own cats. We should get a cat."
"I don't like cats."
And he doesn't tell her it's because when she leaves, as everyone does eventually, he doesn't
want to be stuck with a living, breathing


 She curls herself around his body in bed
and gives the smirk he almost forgot about and it feels like
being kicked in the throat.
this isn't real this isn't real this isn't real
"You want me to leave, don't you? I know it. You're terrible to me and you want me to leave."
and he wants to run again, acutely aware that his reaction at this moment 
was quite possibly the single definition of the way he felt,
"I want you to stay. I want you to stay so much."

Sunday, May 22, 2011

she's passive aggressive in art's disguise,

shot down love poems

buckshot, doe eyes. 
my heart beats too fast when i see you

"thats not love,
it's an arrthymia."

Saturday, May 21, 2011

"it's a beautiful baby-girl!"
i bet my mother smiles when she thinks of that day
or cries. i don't know.
[all better. we're ready again;
'times been given'
whispered the head
love is religion
and God is dead.]
and he'll take you home like a starving kitten
bundle and coddle you, black the windows and you'll smile
you- locked up; safe up forever and you'll think
"i am happy now."

but you'll miss our long car rides
and the way my hands traced your spine.

Friday, May 20, 2011

don't tell me there's nothing out there.
you're life sucks, i know-;
but he lets you dream every night and if that's not mercy, i don't know what is.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

your god tells you that you'll go to hell for what we do.
the reckoning will bear down on you, stripping meat from damned bones.
you'll burn for the places my fingertips

my god just wants me to be happy.

i wish you could love me for how much i love you.

a bed without you in it 
just seems wrong

i buy my cigarettes in bulk 
and search for a single breath
you might have left behind.
your mother called today, a hollow voice and she
doesn't have much to say, 

she asks for the memories back,
to steal and hoard and lock in her room with old trophies and your 

i wonder if they still send her cards,
not much of a mother's day with
no child.
when i was eleven, i chased a cat 
off of a baby bird in the street.
i ran barefoot to the house,
all beak and shoots of feathers and beeps
coming from under the towel.
he lived for 3 months.

you can love something enough
and it'll still leave.
it's not my fault.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

i've been writing a lot;

trying to force an epiphany out of myself, laying quietly at night
scared to fucking death
that the words have left me 
and the ability to write is slipping away and i need this 
i need this.

i have a masterpiece inside of my finger tips and i can feel it
move under my skin like a snake
weighed down by all the things i'm not 

tonight, my professor gave us all 5 minutes to summarize our case studies,
and had me read my entire 7 page paper in front of the class
and said the two words that made my heart sink to the bottom of my ribs
"self publish"
and i thought, briefly, of people reading books with my name on them and 
poetry circles and everyone listening
and i thought of everything i had given up. 
and i thought of everything i could be losing.

they all said
"dig yourself out of that hole, you'll be fine!"
i was one of those kids born
without a shovel.
she likes dream catchers and hangs them over her bed
to keep her sleep clean

i've got flashcards and the past dirty on my arms.

we will pay for this escape.

whispers spread through Ravensbrück faster than fleas, 
there was a line on a map in some dusty office that turned illegal into legal and 
men with american guns who didn't know we existed.

they made us watch the barracks burn like fireworks and they ran
with tails between their legs.
i made her go, my beauty, skinny-sick and barefoot stumbling
towards the Baltic Sea

I waited in Amsterdam for three weeks at the bus station
before she came back.
"I would have waited forever, you know that?"

Monday, May 16, 2011

take my secrets from me like layers
of clothes, laying on your bed,

baby, i'm as bad as they come.
leave all those old lovers 
on the side of the road

find freedom in state lines and waking up alone.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

i am happier than i have ever been in my entire life
for no reason.

isn't this what we've been fighting for?
the world is terrible
it's not just you.

Friday, May 13, 2011


you think you're a cored apple and
paint over the gaping hope with purple nail polish and a cute

a heart so big it hurts like hell.

you sleep at the bottom of the ocean in a sunken ship
with a stomach full of pills, happy because
dead men can't drown.


her legs floated up like islands in dirty lake water 
and i tried to ignore the places her bathing suit didn't capture-
skin like pale horses running wild.
her lips moved closer, wading through seaweed and rounded bottom rocks
"you are so young, it's cute."

i will be twenty years old soon and i can count my regrets on one hand-
i wish i had touched those legs.


it hits me as a craving in the night, the desire to slip
back into the hollow of your neck. 

muscles woven and pulled taunt like a tent 
anchored to your collar bones
at sea,

i sweat you out like a fever and in the morning
you're gone.

everything will be okay.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011


her hands shake and she steadies them on a coffee cup, holding it into her chest like a shield-
long white fingers stolen from a piano.
everything she did was art, every moment a masterpiece that my eyes barely touched
like a cautious child's fingertips ghosting over glass in a museum

you don't belong to this world.
they promised her perfect
flowers and hair and a good man
with a good job and good genes

she had puzzle piece DNA and a smile too wide for her face
when she kissed me on the dock.
and me, with winter skin watching from a pew
her pearls brighter than her eyes.
and inside her chest is a tiny generator
instead of a heart-;

Monday, May 9, 2011

what sorts of things would you like to hear?
i want to make every single one of you feel

i lost 14 pounds in one month
from sorrow.
i am hemorrhaging the memories 
and closing the doors.

i've lost my charge, i've been degaussed.

degauss [v.]- 
1. to neutralize the magnetic field of (a ship, for example).
2. to erase information from a magnetic disk or  
a photograph.

put all my things in a duffel-bag and throw it in the 
closet, the corner of your mind.
and force me from all the frames sitting empty in your room
and fill them with something happy-;

you can sleep with a ghost again,
what you deserve.
you tried and tried and it's okay,
you can't love a brick wall.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

The First storm of the Year

branches like greedy little hands reached towards the sky, swollen pink with snow.
11:59 in some apartment with terrible techno and boys whose hands moved to my hips like magnets. 
driving home at 12:23 for a little blond head with guilt soured in my mouth;
the holidays in a circuit board.

she boarded up her windows in New York City and curled her body next to a ghost.
sometimes there aren't enough pieces 
to put everything back together again.

when there's nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire

she was summer dried grass and when we kissed she would

i was a husk, every step i took left memories behind, shedding them like a winter coat.
i was raw, a dried up oil lamp-;
old yellow newspaper and kerosene.

she touched me like a match.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

the little sparks that start the biggest fires-;

i came home to her clothes hanging in my closet
and it was like every single sweater 
was wrapped around my neck.

"i couldn't find my northface today, there's too much shit in there."
"I didn't have time to clean it out today, I work."
"so do i"
"No, you write. I don't see you pulling 10 hour shifts at the keyboard and then being bitched at for not cleaning the fucking closet."
"don't talk to me like that, your job is meaningless. you pull 10 hour shifts that amount to nothing. so don't fucking talk to me about working."

i left and walked up and down our street, trying to find the air again
and when i came back the luggage was gone.

there's too much room in the closet.

a little knowledge is a dangerous thing

he was different after the accident, 
talked slower and couldn't remember the small things like how to tie his shoe or his girlfriend's middle name.
we made fun of him and said only apples fall out of trees and he
would laugh.
i could almost see him when he laughed.

the doctors had big machines and they could fix it-
he left the operating room with his old eyes.
he was different after surgery, 
a long red scar and they must have made a mistake and
cut the wrong wires because he was smart again,
smart and sad.

dreams are better worlds,
so you don't sleep just to be let down.


Wednesday, May 4, 2011

she turns to me and props herself up by the elbow with eyes so big 
they break my heart.
"tell me a story."

"from clipboards in the hospital bay,
they told me that the music keeping me up at night was all in my head.
but i think i'd rather stay insane 
than have to wake up to that silence ever again."

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

[she was heavy, ripe by the time i found her as if she was already in love and just needed a face for it. i was a cardboard cut out that smiled like a third grader and it was enough. loving her felt like throwing myself off a building.]

Monday, May 2, 2011

someday i will trace the taunt of your neck 
with my lips. 
someday i will show you
what i see.

the modern marvels of unmoral science

her ghost didn't smash windows or throw books
but made him coffee just the way he remembered and cried sometimes,
when everyone was asleep

he couldn't decide which was worse.

we sat out on the tracks this summer looking for trains. he lays his head on my shoulder and i smile. he's simple and comforting like the cold tile in the bathroom when you had a child's fever.
"i always feel like i'm waiting."
"we are waiting, for trains."
"no, i mean, all the time. there's this jumping inside me."
"you better not jump off this ledge"
"fuck you Danny. i'm trying to figure out why i feel this way."
"don't figure it out, just feel it. even if it hurts, bite down and breathe through the pain. stop rushing to get all your feeling out of the way Bee, there is no time
only clocks."

a train came later and we stood up to feel the rush of air break against
our skin and the blaring
lights and noise and fast.
"lets stay for the next one."

Sunday, May 1, 2011

no one belongs here more than you [the district sleeps alone tonight]


you only accept the outcomes that you think you deserve and
i'll always lower myself to pathetically pleading and clinging to the last words
because being rejected is easier than always wondering what would have happened
if i had swallowed that damned pride.

and you tell me that no one belongs here more than i do but
there are sign-in policies and a name tag to tell all your friends
"i am a visitor here. i am not permanent." 
you were
a paper doll stapled to my life, 
to my memories, to my places
and it always seemed a little odd because
your domain was my room and the glowing box across from my bed, your domain
was my mind and in person it felt like i was borrowing you
from some better world you were a part of, 
the kind that only has partial custody and takes me for ice cream on the 

this car has already crashed and i could write a book
about how great it used to be
but it would still sit
dead in the lot.
we can visit it, laugh in the torn up seats and talk about
all the places we went
it won't be the same but, it'll help me sleep just for tonight.

i was traced into your life and it barely took
a few strokes to remove me completely, just
remember my imprint and how much you said it meant
before tracing any one else in.
you rewrote your sentences;
"baby stay 
the night"

 "i wish it had been like this the whole time"
we were cheated.
"i wish loving me didn't make you miserable"
the world owes us.
last night we cried into each other and
you touched my face as if i was

"why are you doing this? why are you acting like this?"

because i'm tired of every morning
i let myself care, i let myself feel it
and now i just don't give a fuck anymore.

for the hell of it.

reposting this.
the mania hit her like a wave, the super powers of never needing
food or water or sleep because she'd surpassed that,
a fast machine all mechanical and efficient and dangerous.

a marvel though, she was so beautiful. the way she could move as if
she wasn't made of anything
except humming static at the corners of her skin. a light bulb

thin glass stretched over her bones and inside,

she lasted five days and went out like
a supernova;
an explosion against the concrete divider in the road.
it must have been beautiful

so, your honor, we burned her house down because
that's what she would have wanted
and we loved her.