Waiting on alters,
Why do you insist on eternally
Turning yourself into
This sacrificial lamb?
Waiting patiently for the knife
At your throat
In exchange for that which
You desire most,
But do you really believe your
Suffering brings you closer to God?
The scars on your heart
Tally the times you’ve reached the end
And still, here you are again-
Does this ever get tiring to you?
How are you not tired of this?
Because I’m so-
I am not a saint
Sage, poet, pagan, hippy bitch
Frolicking through forests
With flowers in my hair
Waiting to ease your pain
Heathen, hipster, flower child-
I walk in storms to wash my sins away,
But the kiss of the raindrops
Makes my shirt stick to my skin
Igniting any onlooking eyes
In such a way,
And of course it’s all my fault-
I was born free without a fuck
To give or two,
So take me with a grain of salt
And a shot of tequila,
If I’m just a little too much for you-
You are not one, but two,
As I lay here forgotten
Six feet under the weeping ash,
Can’t you see?
Man made me this some sort of way-
Suddenly I blink and there are three of you-
One for each dirty part of me-
I’m afraid there will be more to come
So I dare not close my eyes,
But I can’t bear to watch any longer.
Keep calm and keep it inside-
All the pain of searing scars-
The self doubt, self deprecation-
Something just isn’t right here.
The scratches down my back
Should be soothing
In the same way a stubbed toe
Distracts from a splinter,
Numbing everything else-
If only for a second.
And if nothing else, shouldn’t
The raised skin remind me
That you wanted to be here?
At least in the moment,
For some strange reason
Something in me caught your eye,
Something in this self
Put together from scratch,
Rebuilt every morning
Because the end goal-
Just getting it right-
Still seems so far out of reach.
You say there’s something here,
Something strong for putting up
With the bullshit for so long,
But if that’s true then why does this
Feel so fucking wrong?
I’m not allowed to love myself,
It’s just not the way society raised me to be.
Love thy neighbor,
But hate thy self-
Shelf your dreams
For the sake of the machine
And keep on rebuilding from scratch.
Maybe if originality and trust
Were valued more than
Appearances and lust
I could maybe love you,
But you have a lot to learn too,
Because darling, don’t you see?
You don’t really love me-
Just the parts-
Put together from scratch.
My mother once told me
That “you never really see
How toxic someone is
Until you breathe fresher air,”
But never mentioned
What comes after.
When he wasn’t toxic in the sense of
City smog, or exhaust from cars,
But of cigarette smoke and whiskey
In dimly lit bars
When you know you should have left
At least two drinks ago,
But it’s all so warm-
And feels so right-
That you don’t even bother to put up a fight
Against the poison coursing through your veins
As it turns your blood to fire-
This is what the world has taught us
Passion feels like.
So we clench our fists tight
And hold on for dear life-
Even with our shaking hands
And sweating palms,
Because some addictions are just too sweet to break-
So we let them kill us instead,
And always with a smile…
And mother never told me that.
Dreamers of a different kind
Will chase their desires until death,
And even then, just maybe
A little bit further-
Watching dandelion dust transform
Into wings, carried on the whispered
Prayers that have fallen on deaf ears
One too many times-
A last resort we repeat every chance we get-
Desperation is a dangerous drive-
When combined with something else-
To hold together that which has already
Been broken for so long-
I have become a dreamer of my own kind-
Frayed on every edge with doubts-
And damn it-
The thought that when you fade
The world will just stay the same-
I wish on clocks because
Maybe this time it will be different-
Waiting on hands and faces
We’re always wishing to be,
But lack the bite to break through-
And I know I shouldn’t believe this to be true,
But do you even miss me when I’m gone?
I wish on clocks
Because this time
I hope it will be different.
On the nights when the stars slumber
Behind veils of darkness-
The moon’s muffled lullabies unable
To reach my yearning ears-
The monsters crawl into my bed with me.
They are merciless-
Musing softly of all my mistakes-
Making much of what should have been miniscule-
Over and over again-
The manic refrain
Knifing my brain
As they drink my worth dry
From the sorrows they rip
From my sleepless eyes
With their needle like claws
And I find myself paralyzed.
They paw restlessly
Beneath my clothes
And make my skin crawl-
Their touch is nothing like yours,
Seems to be far more familiar-
On nights like these I find myself wishing
That you were the monster who had
Crawled into bed with me instead,
But instead I am here alone-
And when I’m alone
They ravage me raw-
Drawing out the ugliest bits and pieces of me-
I wish you never saw these bits and pieces of me-
I wonder what you think of me now.
She was the kind of girl that men put pen to paper for-
Made immortal in ink and song-
The beautiful stranger held the soul of a muse-
Yet those fingers would never leave the ivory keys
To find the right notes in the notches of her spine-
The whispered sonnets would never grace her collarbone
So sweetly as they would but a breath away from
Some coffee shop microphone.
She would never know the feel of calloused hands
Playing her like a guitar,
Or falling asleep next to her lover
Who still smelled softly of acrylics and turpentine-
She was the kind of girl they loved to love,
But only ever from afar.