Here is the Hell that I have built for us.
Here is the place we buried each other.
Here is the place we forgot where.
Here is the valley of your chest when I am looking at the small bloody tooth in the meaning of you.
Here is the Hell I have built for us.
Here is you and I in the homes we grew up in.
Here is the cemetery where they kissed you like you were dying.
Here is what I made you into- tiny and dark.
Here is my guilt, my smallness, my sacrifice.
Here, I am a better ghost than you.
Posted 1 month ago with 6 notes ↳↴
I put a tissue over the webcam cus im ugly & also you hear my phone go off in the middle of it so its shitty but anyway, this is me doing a reading of “and i will make wordless things” by proudbeam.
"i only care about making stuff n fucking. i put all i made in the tunnel under my bedroom. its a zoo full of ugly animals. the written the stuffed and the painted. the cut up the stitched and the welded. i dont want to write any more. i want to be wordless. i’m going to kill all the animals in my zoo, chuck them out as they bleed or smoulder, make a new space for you. i want you in my tunnel. i will tie you up if i have to. i don’t care if you say you don’t want to. i’ll fucking kidnap you. no-one will notice you’ve gone missing. in my zoo you will do all the writing. i dont want poetry, i sweat that shit out my pores every night. i want the words you write to be spare. bare. stripped. and all written for me. i will never write again. i’m going to fuck your brains out instead of writing this constant flow of bollocks. thats all i’ll ever do from now on. i dont even fancy talking, unless we talk about fucking. we can watch movies about fucking and we can do fucking. everything’s about fucking anyway. i’m tired of pretending i care about anything else. the holidays, careers, prices. the kids. the cars. the gardens. gardens are okay actually. you can fuck in the garden. anywhere you can fuck is okay. but for now i want to fuck you in the tunnel under my bedroom. and in my bedroom. and in my bed."
Posted 2 months ago with 19 notes ↳↴
"i am a better ghost than you"
This is what’s called vague “I want you” poetry.
Five minutes in your mouth minus the time translating the things coming out.
You are a weekend full of rest.
Your heart is a cemetery and they kiss you like you’re dying.
You were buried many times but you are still my favorite episode.
You are so much at stake.
Give me your hand in the release of you.
I love you and you are still seeing dark-
while i am looking at the small bloody tooth in the meaning of you.
You are so tiny where i have to burn you.
Posted 4 months ago with 14 notes ↳↴
Ebook- I am a better ghost than you ↘
So i made my first ebook, idk if i made it right but OH WELL. Anyway, feel free to look at it and tell me what you think. ts called “i am a better ghost than you”
Posted 5 months ago with 11 notes ↳↴
❝ And you wonder how it ever got to this.
How in a city of so much warm blood and skin,
you’ve brambled such a thicket of razor wire around you
that you find yourself so
New York City.
It’s Broadway. It is bright lights.
It is the ultimate door that most the world won’t dare knock on.
So what..are you doing?
The nights you stay behind:
too much lipstick, an extra Bourbon,
pretend the baseball game in this bar is a language you actually understand.
The nights your eyes become magnets,
when you hurl your body last call like a “promise”-
I mean- how did you get here?
Was it the divorce? The bankruptcy? The nervous breakdown?
The six years of waiting for someone, anyone better?
Or was it your mother, drunk at the bottom of the stairs?
The emergency room lights.
The friend that plummeted seventeen silent stories like a jet engine?
The night sweats.
The way the rats seem to recognize your shoes.
Them cold New York winters
adding up like tic marks on a chalkboard.
The birthdays and the endless string of
not good enough, not smart enough, not enough-
and how did it ever get so drunk?
And lies. And fight. And dawn, and drunk.
How long since someone gathered you broken in their mouth?
What I mean is- when last did someone pull your hair tight?
Curve you like a swan’s neck?
What I mean is- what won’t you do for five minutes of someone’s
pressed into yours?
These boots are for unlacing.
These eyes are for sail.
These legs are for flight.
This mouth is a distraction,
I mean- I miss your hands.
These tiny thieveries push into the gentle tug
of a barber’s hands at your scalp.
Brush a cashier’s palm against yours.
Trace footsteps in a crowd.
Find the warm, still damp spots on subway handles-
I mean to say- come home with me.
I mean to say skin is a language.
I mean to say
I do it because I’m hurting, because I’m alone, because I’m weak.
I met you last night from behind-
I didn’t know your name.
Did I say love? I meant name.
I meant rumor.
I meant long girl on a long run and my joints don’t bend right.
I mean- what is your name?
My name is thirst, is starve.
I made this for you.
I wanted to tell you about my mother-
how her eyes like yours are a forgiveness.
I’ve been places I don’t want you to see.
I just want you here.
When my leg brushes yours- I mean to do it.
The long nights
and these same hands I have been using for
so many years-
I mean to say yes.
My name is now. My name means thief.
Means ache. Means move. Swell. Brick. Means live.
Posted 6 months ago with 157 notes ↳↴
Thank You | Adam Falkner & Jeanann Verlee.
So fucking important.
The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to
sleep in your bed. You try to warn him, you tell him
you will want to get inside him, and ruin him,
but he doesn’t listen.
You do this, you do. You take the things you love
and tear them apart
or you pin them down with your body and pretend they’re yours.
Posted 6 months ago with 18 notes ↳↴
So, you kiss him, and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t
pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn’t moved,
he’s frozen, and you’ve kissed him, and he’ll never
forgive you, and maybe now he’ll leave you alone.
Now you are wired around my memory. You, the restricting vine, pull every escaping thought I’ve ever had about you right back home again. You must know there is a distinction between what I say and what I do. I tell you that you set my heart in place, but my chest is shrinking with every glance you fire. I tell you that you set my heart in place, but my skin feels chalky. I think I’m crumbling at your feet.
Posted 7 months ago with 10 notes ↳↴
❝ Her placenta which comes out from between her feet and her children whom she bears; for she will eat them secretly for lack of everything in the siege and desperate straits in which your enemy shall distress you at all your gates. ❞
Posted 7 months ago with 15 notes ↳↴
— Finding Poetry in the Bible, (Deuteronomy 28:57)
Me reading a poem I wrote but the first part got cut off oh well.
I want to stop lying. I want to not cheat on people. I want a man with a beard and two hands and a chest. I want a man to push our child’s butt over the edge of the seat it’s trying to climb and then say yay!! you did it all by yourself!!! I want friends that like me. I want a boy to lay on top of me and crush me with all of his weight. I want a boy to bury his face in my neck. I want to be choked. I want you to call me pretty. I want you to stop apologizing. I want you to stop apologizing then going right back to fingering me a minute and a half later. I want the bruises on my neck to go away before he notices. I want him to notice. I don’t want to have to think of these things, I want them to pour out of me. I want to believe that I want to die. I want to be a good person. I want to stop lying..
Posted 12 months ago with 4 notes ↳↴
Someone once told me that poetry is a form of lying to yourself.
Posted 1 year ago with 21 notes ↳↴
I didn’t believe it at first, mostly because that person was me….
but I am learning how to lie to myself.
I want to write something honest,
but lately I have been deceitful so I can’t.
I keep unlearning the things I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself of and I’m sorry.
I don’t know why I keep apologizing but sometimes its the only thing I have to write about.
Isn’t the real reason for writing repentance? Isn’t that all it is? If it is, I could go on for miles like-
I keep listening to my subconscious and I’m sorry.
I keep searching for parts of you in other people and I’m sorry…
Maybe in three years I will have enough feeling to form an actual poem
but for now I can only write about guilt and the hands that I don’t know how to reach for.
Paleness & ache & birdhouse construction & memory distorts, darling
Posted 1 year ago with 2 notes ↳↴
I want to stop lying. I want to not cheat on people. I want a man with a beard and two hands and a chest. I want a man to push our child’s butt over the edge of the seat it’s trying to climb and then say yay!! you did it all by yourself!!! I want friends that like me. I want a boy to lay on top of me and crush me with all of his weight. I want a boy to bury his face in my neck. I want to be choked. I want you to call me pretty. I want you to hit me. I want you to stop apologizing. I want you to stop apologizing then going right back to fingering me a minute and a half later. I want the bruises on my neck to go away before he notices. I want him to notice. I don’t want to have to think of these things, I want them to pour out of me. I want to believe that I want to die. I want to be a good person. I want to stop lying..
Posted 1 year ago with 11 notes ↳↴