identity crisis

i was a letter short of an identity crisis
because i kept on forgetting how to spell.
i kept misplacing my first name…
…and my last, for that matter.
the letters kept slipping my damn mind.
i’d try to sit down and write, but my fingers
could produce nothing more but the jumble puzzles
that you would  every sunday in the newspaper,
if you remembered how to spell yourself.

maybe someday the violet sky will save us all,
from each other, from ourselves,
and our inevitable damnation to illiteracy .
maybe the drugs will spark our memory
so we can spell again.
so we can write each other love letters
because there’s nothing else to fucking do.
nothing to do but sit around
in a hardly square,
because we are hardly there.

we’ll get fucked up, and remember.
but the recollection is as temporary as the
pink flush that rushes your face when you push
the shot down your throat.
with the name of something russian,
that you like to say, because you think
you can be whatever you please,
but honey, you don’t know that you can’t change
who you are if you don’t know who you are
to start.

i’ll sit across from you and pick the digits from your face
to try to figure you out, but your tears keep washing them away.
my face will go sour and your letters will turn to numbers
and you’ll turn to me and say, in a voice so rational,
“hey, at least we’re the same again,
and what does it matter if we don’t know who we are?”

a twisted kind of feminism

welcome to the beginning, she said
beware of what you expect.
expect nothing,
expect to expect nothing,
and nothing will blow your mind.

listen to my lips,
read the letters,
watch me recreate.
see my tongue pull apart and singe back together,
a sewing needle of the rhythmic sort.

visualize my heart,
beating soullessly the same blood you saw upon my hip.
recollect the memory of the wound,
zoom in, to the bedroom, the toilet, the closet
where I tied a belt around my neck.
recall the blood type, and put your arms up.
become a syringe.
dive into my vein, swim in my bloodstream.
notice the void spaces where you can nest,
the spaces of lifelessness, the space where I crave to be.

read my poems,
absorb the syllables into your pores
and leak them out with every sound you resonate.
they’ll vibrate back off me like a xylophone,
making the most feverish kind of harmony.
don’t let it get to your head.

take off your scuba mask,
put down your sewing needle,
plug your ears to the music,
and fix your gaze downward
to feel your head gauged open
and your brains scrambled on the concrete,
just like the breakfast I warned you against eating.

Hope you brought a frying pan.

math has never been my forte

her words from a quarter of a decade ago
are louder now than ever.
a constant prying, pulling, piercing, to my hippocampus,
but there’s not a chance of a rebuttal–I’ve lost the strength I’ve once had.
damage is done, but not finished.
there are still bones to be crushed beneath her gaudy high heels,
there is still a bloodstream to intoxicate,
there is still a mind to completely decompose,
a heart still greedily beating with vigor.

I should have seen her plan all along,
such a fool I was. 
conned by her venom breath and her cocaine eyes;
I was young.
but still when I see her I am drawn in under a spell,
a spell that not even the strongest hypnosis could duplicate.

she led me to café tables, bathroom stalls, down to the water…
she battled and conquered my common sense
she whispered promises in my ear that made me high.
she taught me her ways: “addition is bad, multiplication is murder.”
well, I would like to subtract her from my life, entirely–
if that is not conceivable, I’d like to divide my own by zero;
and simply, not exist.

rambles

the bottle named passion is stored under my bed
sealed in glass,
far from you

the bottle named passion remains under my bed
half drunken,
half mistaken,
mistaken by the words you hear out of context
and try to fit in your latent mind.

the bottle named passion
ate my insides, destroyed my outsides,
made the streetlight stutter.
the kind of stutter i hear from your lips
when you put your mouth to a different kind of bottle.

the bottle named passion belongs to a different owner
who knows how to put his lips to it just right
and exactly how much to consume.
a connoisseur of the art,
a boom-pow to my heart.
the bottle belongs to you.

(in your absence)

the bottle named passion is my liquefied noose
it’ll surround me,
engulf me,
torture me,
surrender me.
as if i ever had a choice.

relapse (in a different way)

how does it pull me in?  again and again.  i’m so unattract(ive)ed and unrefined. 
unrefined to such a point that i am raw, bulk material…with plently to spare. 
you believe that you can make something out of me. you still have only one ear open and one eye closed and i’ve got my senses raw and exposed. it’s a horrible collision of the disgustingly numb and the live hot-wired.

you hated me for hating you, for hating what you made me become. i wish i could hate you now. i wish i could hate you for hating him. i can’t hate. my mind has blocked out the word entirely. the only words i know are guilt and love.  but even guilt and love don’t mean the same thing anymore. it’s more like hate.

i hate that i fucking love him, but my brain is an open electrical box and he keeps rewiring all the neurotransmitters and chemicals, so i feel what i don’t wanna feel.

Mind Dump 5/7

Ever feel like you are looking down at your body?

Like you are looking overhead at your conversations, interactions and moments of silence.  Today, I feel like my body is a shell, in automatic mode and I’m completely somewhere else.  I woke up with a pulse of 120 beat/min and couldn’t catch my breath and ever since then, I feel like I have just packed a bag and walked right out of myself.

I’m going absolutely crazy.  The craziest I’ve ever felt, so disassociated from my flesh yet my whole body is SCREAMING at me, with little pricks and pains but I feel like I can’t do anything about it because I’m somewhere far, far away from the source of pain.

I lost my appetite, for food, for relationships, the only thing I can comprehend is to-do lists.  And those still haunt me, like a skeleton hanging in my closet that I’ve refused to acknowledge.  I have so so much to do but I’ve lost sense of priorities.  I have no idea what should come first, and what should come second, third, fourth, fifth.

I don’t even put restricting on my priority list, because that is something that goes without saying or even thinking about.  I see myself getting thinner and I can’t tell if it is a result of my mental craziness or my success  with ED. 

I don’t even know what success WOULD BE though.  I’ve always said my world is black and white, but now I feel like I can’t even tell the difference between them.

Please tell me some one else has felt this way before.

dark covers beauty well

         What happens when we get down to zero?  Will it be enough?  We believe we can scoot into the negatives without a problem, that’s a problem.  When will we stop obsessing over our collarbones, knocking on our hips, squeezing our stomachs? 

           When will we stop picking at our faces, covering them up with makeup, ripping out our hair?  When will we stop burying our faces in tabloids, when will we stop with all the damn comparing?  When will we be able to close our eyes and imagine ourselves the way everyone else sees us?  Will we stop when all that we have left is that frame that used to be someone so vibrant and full of life?  

            We are too beautiful to be staring back at ourselves in a bathroom stall.  We are too beautiful to have that white/yellow/blue powder fall out of our noses with each fake laugh. We are too beautiful to endure a punch to the gut everytime we hear a grumble.  We are too beautiful to spend our lives in bathroom stalls with a straw up our nose or a finger down our throat. 

 

WE ARE BEAUTIFUL

 

when will be be able to see that outside of the black paint the toilet stall reflects?

the walking dead

we were giving up ties and everyone knew it. 
 there was something special about you..the way you looked at me with only one eye opened because you never would let yourself the evil side of me.  The side that hates herself so much that she would go days without eating, and sneak razors from her dad’s workshop to play a game of hide and seek with herself.  I would tell you all about all these things, but one of your ears was always plugged.

How did you do this?  How did you love me so much?  I’d ask you this among other things, and you’d say: “you’re different than other girls.”  I would agree, but not in a way that anyone would want to be.  Now, every night I shut myself away in my room wishing for something strong–some drugs, some booze, some pills…but I don’t do that anymore.  You loved me when I did.  You loved me when I was dying.  You love the dead.

I’m more full of life than now than I have been in years, and I hate it with every inch of me.  I am beginning to deny myself from myself again. 

Where do I go now?
You don’t love me anymore,
I’m not dead.

get me high off your smell

when i close my eyes i still see you where i left you.
beneath the decaying leaves that crunch under my feet
when i come to see if you’re still breathing.
once i see the slightest bit of movement
in your nature made mosaic, i’ve seen enough.
once i see the fog of your breath leak through the cracks in netting in which you lay, fetally curled, i’ve seen enough.

i feel justified when i know your veins are still pumping that same blood
that once was infused with my own,
our cells colliding, in a frantic, crash and burn kind of way…
just like we used to.
i clasp my ever-frozen hands together
and feel nothing but that milky smooth scar
that was put there by you,
by a less than dull knife on the floor of your garage.
with a knife we made a promise without a purpose
a promise neither of us could keep.

but we didn’t know it then,
we couldn’t even tell you where we were if you asked.
we were high.
high off fumes of each others dopamine.
an aphrodisiac of unforeseen sorts.
but we made a promise, you can’t tell me that you don’t remember
you didn’t swallow your mind away with those caplets that night
despite how much you’d like to pretend.

so as long as you keep on doing what you’re doing
i’ll try to keep caring if your veins are still in tact
and carrying a part of me with them, you know i’m selfish. that’s nothing new.

winter’s coming, and i wouldn’t be surprised if your blood is frozen solid
but wait till spring darling, and i’ll attempt to resurrect you like i did before.

ambient lighting gets the best of us once again

i saw you push her out your window
-at precisely 4:23 am
when she had nothing more than one ass cheek teetering on the edge
and she was taking her last drag of her smoldering coal, preparing for your nightly ritual together

i saw her fall onto the grass and concrete landscape
and i saw your face after she landed.
the fall wasn’t as dramatic as you had wished, i could tell
and her wounds didn’t mirror what damage had been done
-to your brain. the night before.
you set her in motion because you’ve always heard
’seperation makes the heart grow fonder’ 
from the faces of people who never really experienced
the kind of seperation that nibbles at your rotting heart
like the last few bites of an apple core, already brown all over.
i watched you watching her cry,
you thought she was crying for you, (or the absence of your touch)
but she was crying because she landed in a puddle
and her varsace night shirt was soiled, 
just like your wrists when you burnt them with her hair straightener
in attempt to iron the wrinkles from your mind.

she got up and left after brushing off the dirt
but you were still convinced she was there,
in fact, you saw her there, lying there
…just like your saw her dependence for you
i can tell just by looking at you what your biggest problem is
you are always seeing what isn’t there, believing what never happened.
like your best sex story, nobody really believes it.
your words are not bullets,
they do not penetrate the skin.

and she’s away somewhere with a personified version of recovery
and you’re sitting in her clothes, inhaling her scent
picking at the scab on your wrist
as if you could pick away at your life.
pick and choose, pick and choose.
this is good, this is bad. pick and choose.

after half of your skin had turn a bitter brown
and reeked of singed regret;
she returned, dirtier than when she left
radiating the stench of pride and sex.
but you can’t even smile at her arrival,
you can’t let her even look at your face
you can’t let her know that you did exactly what she intended you to do

(she just wanted to see how much destruction she could cause
-she wanted to see what would happen when she finally went away)
and she and i watched it all happen. together.