if the footsteps behind me are mine
echoing off the marble floors in clips
and clops, heel-toe tempo in an envelope
do you think sound travels through time?
do you think the scream i release is
captured by the stained glass windows,
the same way harmonies and hymns once sunk
holy knives into ancient gilded glass for worship?
oh the song of God is a mourning call, as most
people will call out for their Father in times
distressful and hard. could i mail my death-throes
in the same audible envelope i arrived in?
wordless noise folded over and over again
pressed together and sharpened to a blade.
cacophony shoved into every corner and corridor
until the word of God is spoken under the echo.
so would you believe anyone can become a ghost?
since time is an echo and my last memories
tied to this place are a song i never wish to sing again.
since i remember a song i shouldn’t know.
since these halls are empty of sound,
and here, death is the only thing hallowed.
i’d wish my voice to travel far back in time.
if only to guide the people God left behind.
when I rot
hang streamers from my
ribs and call it a party,
live a little, love.
the parts of me you broke
i have sewn them back together
with love in every stitch
drama queen tendencies
i don’t know what they call this,
melodrama or real life or secrets of a
wannabe cool kid stuck in kool aid suburbia
no newness no shine just
loss just yearning for a one-day flash event
for fire or for a name to paste in for
a feature on the ap lit exam to
wax poetic about my chosen devices when i,
left to my own, am a mess.
i starve on movie reviews and forty minute curfews
i pine for a person i barely know
i don’t sleep enough or eat the right stuff i barely have time
for the good people in my life as i give it all
to good stories and wasted time
and here i go again.
we should catch up sometime.
slow solitary simple
on the outside in,
tragic rain-patter heart
pulsating radio fuzz,
patternless pointless roar,
nocturnal grungy void
call that love
how is it that
i can dream so
feelings are so
it would be
so hard for a
to fall in love
it's not a good
reason - but i'm
or another tear
after my family
has left me
don't you see
body next to
be nice, but
i can't exactly
april // a wild thing inside the heart (absence) (not like this)
i feel your hands
coming from my own,
even as they
touch my face (and linger there),
feel you like an
absence, like an
echo, like a
you’ve been gone and you’re gone and you’re
you are going
—the kind of empty
that pulses through your chest,
echoing through all the
and i miss you like
(growing out of people)
(things and music and loves)
(books and smiles and)
and i miss you like
(memories barely there, anymore)
(the love still strong, but like an)
(i’m not quite all here)
how have you been doing? they ask.
i’ve been thirty-seven days with zero beads, i want to say.
i’ve been hungry and i haven’t eaten in hours, i want to say.
i’ve been feeling so empty and i can’t fill myself back up, i want to say.
i can’t stop seeing accidents in front of my eyes, i want to say.
i can’t stop envisioning death, i want to say.
i can’t stop i can’t stop i can’t stop, i want to say.
just a little tired, i say.
i hope you all got some rest and recharged this weekend, my teacher says.
i grin across the room to the other students,
as if this secret we’re all in on
is a good one to keep—as if it’s
something to be proud of,
to have so many sleepless nights
and early mornings.
these voices in my head
trap themselves in the crevices of
my mind—they come out to play,
preying on the weaknesses,
until i cover my ears with my
hands and close my eyes, shout
as loud as i can, “SHUT UP,
SHUT UP, SHUT UP!”
and i hold off the tears,
fold my heart back into my chest,
and say, “IT’S FINE IT’S FINE IT’S FINE I’M OKAY, YOU KNOW?
CAN’T YOU SEE I’M FINE, I’M SO
FINE, I’M DOING SO WONDERFUL!”
(i forget not to yell)
a love affair with death
the beetles digging deep in my skin,
they're dyed in crusted, rusted alizarin.
blood or pigment there is no difference.
by the soil that which accepts me
i am become deliverence.
the way my skin melts into the glade
of which, the touch of decay,
sped along by April showers,
pummel the ground to a verdant grave
of which, my body lays down.
though perhaps a windy crescendo shall
herald the end.
after all, what other embargo walls
could the beetles erect in my lost flesh?
they eat to stall a love affair with death.
now, words like blaspheme make me ache.
for this rotting body is in a place
of consecrated ground,
and time will leave no lasting trace
of what these bones used to sing about.
April showers bring May flowers,
so in the desert we make do,
mascara rain and broken things,
planting tears like prose across the back of each hand
where they ripple between shaking breaths.
She is ugly when she cries,
like the clouds this time of year,
but nothing grows from nothing,
and to water dreams with grief
is better than watering them with nothing at all.
i have been dead
for a very long time.
it's so cold, too cold.
the air is quiet, my thoughts are loud.
ashes and flame, all at once.
i want to live again
to forget the permanence of death-
i wanted freedom
but not like this.