Tag Archives: poetry

This way is open

      I doubt you will ever read this.
(I have forged a weapon in your name)


I used to wake up in the morning and my flesh would begin to scream.

I used to rip bleeding chunks out of existence, to find my ghost and wash it clean.

I found you embedded in beating hearts, I watched you pierce through fever and light.

I ran to you so you could run me through.

Wound me.
Pray, give me sight




Once over and again, I steep a potion if proportion through my veins.

I bleed it out for the page. I mark the time and track my age.


I need everyone to leave
But you can stay
Strip the flesh from my torture

Make me new

Make me pay

waste of a prelude

I asked her what she wanted
She said
Belonging was the prize
Instead of this desolation
Another set of eyes

I held my hand to my heart
And stifled all his screams
How can I trust him?
I tell me to shove it

I don’t have those kind of dreams

Stasis update

I held ice to the angry burn on her finger until she protested the pain.

Then begged me to apply it again.

She hurt herself making a morning meal
Honest to god

I didn’t know how to feel.
Eggs relish and steak, heart and pain on a plate.

My senses embraced,
I thought, surely, this must be fate.

Even though we ate freely
We both had reservations
Mouthfuls of courage
But bite-sized intentions

it was all or nothing and I chose starvation

I pick the scorn from my teeth
I try to forget my elation

Master of allusion

My friends
Tell me to be happy
I can’t seem to find the switch
They say it’s hidden twixt desire
And this never ending itch

I’ve dug holes into my heart
I’ve ripped the pictures off it’s walls
I’ve ripped all the doors right off their hinges
Set the hounds loose in the halls

I can’t trust the friends I have
They’ve got me chasing geese
I mark their names for vengeance
Tend to these blisters of defeat

im sorry for your blood loss

I’m having problems differentiating the things I imagine from actual events.
I don’t know who I can trust.
I have violent urges every time I handle a blade.
I wake up thrice a night in a blind panic
Are they here to get me?
Is there blood on my hands?
It feels like there’s a hand-blender inside my mind.
And someone keeps pushing ‘froth’
If I confess these things, they might seal me away.

In a cage of the best intentions

But would the ground beneath my feet
Stop slipping away?