Who?

I’ve got some time before I have to go to work, ask me things please?

Issues like, too many bruises and not enough space
for apologies and ice cream before dinner that one time,
hoping it could fill the void left by the dreams
of other dads who hugged their children with
something besides their open palm.
It’s late, and you’re hiding again from these issues.
There is no crisis hotline for you to call
because it only goes up they say
while you swallow the pills because you need
to get higher to go up.
(When you jump from the 10^th floor
you’ll break the spine your father said you didn’t have.)

I’m back from my adventure, and it was lovely. There are a few more of you here now than when I left, so hello, welcome to my corner of the world.

The first time you fell in love with your body you’d fallen out of the bathtub.
While your ankles bled you breathed like a freshly caught fish,
foreign air, foreign body, unsure if you could survive. You looked at your legs
and realized they were yours and they’d carried you like an abandoned
grocery sack across these years. Though you’d never believed in soul mates
you wondered if there was anyone anywhere who could love you
as much as you loved yourself in that moment of bruises and being whole.
As you caressed your bleeding skin you knew that soul mates are not found,
but created through the time spent with another bleeding body.
There is a world full of things and bodies to love,
and paradise elsewhere is paradise lost.

I’m taking a week long hiatus. Reasons include but are not limited to,

• I’m going on an adventure.
• I won’t be near the internet.
• Even if I was I have no desire to be on Tumblr.
  
  • I’d rather be reading a book.

With shredded bits of stars clinging to your fork,
I watched you try to swallow the sky.
Your mother always said you were hungry for things
you could not have.
This world was not built for you to stomach.
As you cough up fireflies
remember that light cannot be chewed or digested.
The Universe cannot be contained
within an ice cream cone, so chew your planets
slowly.

None of your lovers are going to attend your funeral.
You spent too much time writing poetry about them,
and not enough kissing their black and blue stomachs
good morning. As they pinched the fat on their stomachs,
you compared their eyes to oceans that you’d never bathed
in. While they were lost inside of their own skeletons, you
spit out sonnets on the pillow. Remember this, you and I
will both die in the end, and none of this is going to matter.
Love better than you write.

I’m sorry that I’ve been vanishing from here a lot lately. I really, truly appreciate everybody’s kind words and support. I’ve been having a difficult time lately, and haven’t felt much like writing, or living, but I’m making it. I’m surviving.

Somebody bought you a house. You didn’t really want this house, but it’s yours. One night you’re blindfolded and moved into this house. You can’t leave. It’s yours now. Even though all the things you’ve always known and loved are in this house, it still doesn’t ever feel familiar to you. It’s like somebody comes in every night when you’re not looking and moves all the furniture two inches to the left, or rearranges the dining room. For all you know somebody might be doing that very thing, you just can’t seem to grasp how this house really looks. Most days you hate it, it always seems like it’s too big or too small, and you don’t feel like the home you want to have was meant to fit inside this house. Other days you only hate parts of it, like a window. You think that maybe it’s been that window making the house ugly all along; perhaps the rest of it isn’t so bad. You hire painters, buy curtains, and do all manner of things to change this window. By the time you’re done you think, OK, maybe now I’ll finally feel at home here. Then you see the door, and you realize it was never the window, it was always the door. The window looked fine. You don’t think there’s any hope of fixing the door, so you hang a sheet in front of it. You don’t let people use it. You avoid looking at it. Then one morning you wake up and the door is gone, you’re not even sure if there was ever a door there. In fact, nothing in this house ever seems to be the same, and you hate it. You hate the house that was supposed to be home.

I don’t feel like a good writer. I don’t feel like a good anything right now. I feel utterly disgusting inside and out. If you put a bow on a cow it’s still a cow. I am worthless. I am stupid. I don’t want to exist anymore

I’ve got 4 tubes of red lipstick that I never wear,
because no matter how many times I wash my face it’s still the same.
Somebody said I’d never find love because my face is scarred
and nobody buys the damaged flowers.
(Try not to think about whether or not you want to die right now.)
And when they ask me why I want to jump off the roof of every building I see
I’ll tell them that my body is the tin roof that acid rain kissed and left,
and sometimes when I close my eyes and hold my breath
I can almost make everything sound beautiful.