Midnight OceanThey've said the sands feel like silkThey were rightThey've said sea foam feels like God's breathAnd I believe them tonightI've walked into InfinityWhere a zipper-line crosses the skyI am not afraid of the ocean's salty kissI am not afraid to die
Laundry DayMy machines are brokenSo I dried my clothes outsideNow my socks feel like cloudsAnd my shirts smell like the sky
If You Could DecideWouldn’t it be niceIf you could decide what to feel?Someone could knock on your windowAnd save your life by laughing,“Let’s not be sad anymore”You’d wipe your tearsShed your griefRun from your crooked houseChase the starsIn your sun-stained carUntil you can sleepWith herWhen you cryYou actually feel betterWaking up in the morningShe’ll be in your armsAnd you’ll smell her shampooInstead of thinkingAbout the hurt that today is going to bring youWe could all decide“My heart won’t hurt anymore”And the bruises on your rib-cagesWould stop throbbingIf only it were that easy, huh?
ToleranceIn third grade my friend, Kaia gushed to me about cute boysIn our classOn televisionIn Disney cartoonsShe confessed to me in a whisperHer crush on Phoebus in “The Hunchback of Notre Dame”I didn’t tell her that my stomach filled with butterfliesWhen Esmeralda dancedI didn’t know what a lesbian wasThat information was kept from meTo shield my innocent eyesOne year when the family was supposed to go to Disney LandOur trip was cancelledBecause the Gay Pride parade was in townAnd my Dad didn’t want to “explain things to me”It would confuse meBut I wish he would’ve known that I was already confusedI thought I was transgenderedBecause only BOYS like GIRLSAnd if my parents had told me that love is universal,My self-loathing and shame would’ve have beenWashed away with a kiss of my mother’s lips on my cheekWhen I was twelve I confessed to my motherWhile she was making dinnerI lied and said I was “bisexual&
GuiltyMy left arm is bruisedMy right arm shakesThere's a pounding in my headMy chin quakesMy eyes are swollen shutSo that I will not see the dayThat God puts down his scepterAnd decides I don't need to pay
Emm (Part 36) Emm found that telling herself to stop and think about the situation from a rational and calm point of view was exceedingly difficult when personal feelings were involved. She’d never had that problem before now and she resented it. Not only that, but fear bordering on paranoia told her that there was no longer a way for her to continue in this investigation if her personal feelings were clouding her judgment. But finally, she stopped; breathed a moment or two; and threw her brain into the middle of the problem at hand. Not as a friend, lover, or even an acquaintance, but as the person she had always thought herself as; an assassin. Beck was very upset at being sent to prison. Was this the understandable tumbling emotions of the criminal being put in their place, or was it the panic of an innocent man? He obviously had it out for Stephan from the beginning; never left his side. Beck kept his beady eyes set on Stephan’s e
i read about serial killers not saintsshe says, “what are humans made out of,if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”i think to myself that humans are madeout of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’tfound a way to love us bloodily and morbidlythen he will never be able to look past anyof our self-taught imperfections.but i say none of this, just nod and smile,and wonder what it means that to her,all that i am is a series of mistakes stackedon top of each other. my entire body is a pasti cannot outrun no matter how many timesi move away and forget my name and who i usedto be.she tries to take away my body, but i have foughtfor sixteen years to gain these inches of self-loveand i am proud to stand before her now wearing muscleand skin. i want to tell her that i am ninety-threepercent star dust and that means ninety-three percentof who i am has lived in a blackness so absolutethat the only light i had was the one i created for myself.i want to tell her that’s something i thi
bullets in a shot glassAgain the archers are aching,again their bones are breakinglike the cracks in the Colosseum.Death does not defendeager-eyedfighters; he does not fulfillgodly goals ofheaven and halos.I am inverted, introverted,a jester jeeringat kids who kisslike life is long enough to fall in love.my mouth is a machine,a new nightfallordering our soldiers outinto pits where they pray for peace.the quirks of ourridiculous readings rule us,sand us into sculpturesthin and tall, trembling.our universe is built on uncertaintyand vicious virtueswritten by long-dead warriors whoexpected to live forever, andI do not yield to yourwell-read zombies.
The Wrong Side Of MidNightOn The Doctor's TrainI Met The Princess Of The Dawn,But We WereOn The Wrong Side Of MidNight.
new perspective.i.the dress hangs in the back of my closet,ashamed, limp and danglinglike a hanged lady at the gallows.it is a faded reminderof years ago,of the body I worein times gone.ii.I run my fingers over the pale fabric,trying to recall that dark peach pitrolling in my stomach,that intrusive disgust,that unclear thought running throughmy mind that night.I was younger, then,softer,when I decidedI'd never be wortha frame on the wall.I peeled myself apartin front of the mirror,shed the dress like snakeskin,left it like abandoning a childand sent myself toshiver against the wall.iii.while they all laughedat their faraway party,I trembled over the lyricsof the deafening silencein my middle school bedroom,trying to ignorethat sad pink pile of my imagelaying fat and loose in the corner.iv.today I slipped on the dress again,stepping my toes into its frigid watersbefore letting it tumble down over me.I stood at the mirrorand decided that the dress was lovely,and
What's the Definition of Perfect?I will never be the definition of perfect.I want to burn magazines,And throw rocks at my T.V.Just to block their noise.I hate looking at a scale,And feeling like I've failed.I hate the number that appears,It makes me want to disappear.But then there is that moment I realize,That this is my own life.I will not live it,By the rules of society.I am my own definition of beauty.And I am pretty damn good at it,I am sure as hell not fat or ugly,So screw all those names those kids said to me.I am me,I am not skinny.I am not prettyNot in societies eyes.But that's okay because I am not fake,I have plenty of mistakes.But you know what,That's okay.Because I feel more beautiful than ever,When I see myself in the mirror.Just as me.Than worrying about others,And running from my imperfections in fear.So guess what,Fuck. You. SocietyWith your magazines and size 0 models,Because that is something I never will be!
to be heard (speak)i would write youinto sentienceif these sentencesweren't so wasteful. words, dismantle worry, overwhelmcall it a stanzabut this is ab-b-b-breakdown;deterioration riotingwild and tearingat my language. stomach, curdle scribe, pausei would hold youif only i couldstop these handsfrom scribbling.i would open myselflay bare rampant wishful thinking,scrawl suns and stars that do nothingexcept shine bright and uselessscreaming your namein technicolour until maybejust maybei caught your attention;i would open myselfif only i weren'tso deathly afraid. mind, climb limbs, followheart, steady your beating;handle adjective gently,for some things are notmade for embellishment.bravery is a promiseand i,the anathemaof fidelity.you soar, you swim,you shine;and i tire of assemblingwings that break andships t
Past and PresentThe small me sits and criesChanting, "It will be okay"I walk up to the past me,Remembering this exact momentThe small me looks up and recognizes meAnd my face as her own"It's not going to be okay, is it?"I shake my head"No."