swept back into the familiar ways

slicked back
my hair's long enough again
bend the strands into the same old knots
to see my former self in the mirror
missing, albeit, the grace
charm
proper attire
and stance
of a dancer

i have changed, but it is transparent
and when you lie me over who i used to be
the patterns still fit
(they just need some adjusting)
i have become everything i wanted
desperately, and at the same time
was afraid to be.

four am

set spinning
by the way
you waken me to say goodbye
like a dismissed child
set spinning
by the drugs i've consumed
to try & get rid
of the memory of you
(& your hands on my body & face)
set spinning
by straining to stay away from you
straining
against the power of the pills i swallowed
to paint a better picture
stretched on a gravestone laughing at the sky
bleeding onto the stone
set spinning
by the lack of clouds
& goddamned beautiful music
& the touch of cold metal on my skin
the warmth of blood
& shitty alcohol
set spinning
by the lack of you
in my days & my nights
like a blanket removed
so i shiver all night long.

they say leave you

behind
like a bad dream
but oh
& it's so hard to let go
of dreams, once they have
taken root & festered
& tangled into my heart
like to still its beating.

i didn't want you to be like the others

your fucking face won't
get out of my head

nine times this morning
i thought of you and
turned that pain loose
on myself like a spear,
squeezed it tightly like
a knot,
where no
amount of untying
will ever loosen
my clenched teeth
the fake smile i give
to strangers when i pass

i make fun of people as stupid as i have been
the kind like dogs, who cringe away at
a blow
and later run back for the attention.

i remember talking, laughing
conversation
the kind about the type of men i like
i said i always ended up liking/loving
the ones who treat me like shit

you said you'd beat me, to keep the spark alive
and i laughed, because it was funny
but i'm not laughing now

masquerade*

welcome to the masochist’s ball
rent your whips and your chains
by the hour –
search down an empty-eyed partner
in a mask, blank –
faceless, smooth
and let her pour her rage into you.

when your stranger makes you scream

your stains will mark the pavement
like a murder scene.

chalk lines
are only found

in fiction.





*in my B.A. senior thesis, also

don't bother

i need stitches.
some things (never) change.

the reasons i couldn't leave you, at the time

kept waiting by the small and silly things -
the way her hair falls
from behind her ears, no
matter how firmly placed -
the way she breathes when she sleeps
curled into my neck
while the world outside
waits for me, i stay here
captivated by her movements
the small rustlings
of the covers as she moves
and yes, i have made a study
of this,
i have noticed
each thing
the motions even she
does not know intimately.

like (almost) a prayer

your voice like a hand over the phone line
to caress my cheek (like an unseen breeze)
love you, love you [not] - oh,
like it's ever a conscious decision - like
i could ever pin you down, and classify
this feeling (pit of stomach, a flutter) feeling
like time stands still - like love and hate -
the same intensity of emotion, simply
different ends of the spectrum.
like time stands still like stuck in mud
whenever our lips touch
whenever we mouth away our sorrows
and our yearnings.
let's say it's love - well
maybe but it's
hard to tell
when your hands touch mine, and
i turn away
(wanting oh so badly, but too afraid to try)
but i'm here, hold me -
make me believe.

i see through you

you can tell everything by the
clothing one wears
by the manner in which one
presents his case, his self,
the abrupt manner of his chopped syllables

public speaking

it's not a subject i tread lightly upon
the repercussions are still raised and indented
on my arm, however slight or harmless (looking)
but who am i to insist you not
broach these topics of conversation?
they broach themselves, insistent and loud
they want to be heard, yes
and sometimes i am helpless
to stop the tears, or streams of words

how to die (when already dead)

take a razorblade
attempt to carve your life story
into your arms
drink too much, and smoke
like a chimney

let your body think
you've given up on narcissism,
then
lash back out
and fail to breathe

turn colors
make the audience
gasp in alarm
wash, rinse repeat - (through the months)
make a habit of sleeping

in the street, praying for trucks



p.s.
this is modeled after a poem by Eibhlin Nic Eochaidh, called "How to kill a living thing"

you'll dance until your feet bleed

does this deep-seated need
become a dream, or simply fiction
alongside life? a truth
somewhat possible, yet
ever out of reach?
her small rustlings in the dark -
dreamlike yet perfectly played
the movements precise,
like choreography
the steps you learn by heart
in a stifling dance studio,
tracing shapes after the lights are out.

what we call "love"

if i believe your words - and i try -
what then? do i hold your body
closely, do i hear you whisper
and plead

so you tell me why you're crying
and you tell me why i slept
on the floor, before you dragged me
to bed, yes.

make your excuses
and when the abstracts begin to fit
i'll pretend to see the rest of the picture.

endings, beginnings, and obsessions

it's eventuality
we all have our vices,
the grips of passion
around our throats
it never ends

so let control go
give in to temporary oblivion
drug your way through
lose yourself in sex
alter your mind
if this world is mad, why
then i should be mad, also
to join it.

bent paperclips holding you together

the music is going
so you dance your part
you make your wishes
and if you get the steps right,
if the flowers are laid in your arms just so
then you'll be the ballerina
you always wanted to be
then you'll feel the part
of the graceful creatures
you always strove towards,
but always seemed to fall
somewhat short of.