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Sunday, April 6, 2014


is the poem engraved on your bones
inked by blood rushing
through an unsteady pulse and wounded lungs
is the sound your feet make as you jump to a new rooftop
is a song written in the language of love
is not needing a stool on the mountain’s peak
are the eraser sheddings in the book of life
are confessions,
where you admit that you need extra incentive to be honest
is unstrummed guitar strings
the beats before the songs
is the gulp of shame you swallow so you can not just talk
but speak
is removing armor during the battle
acknowledging even though it looks strong
it’s about to rust from the blood plummeting from the sky
are fancy names for shells
is the pair of hands that cradle your heart just right
is when we notice in others the weakest part of ourselves
are God’s typos

I spent all my money on papers and pens
Plucked my plumpest chickens for quills
I didn’t have dictionaries
Only life to define things for me
But you are the enigma
The misplaced definition in my book
You are
the soul I’ve been trying to decipher
the fear worth giving in to
the dead sea of emotions that will never me let drown
the promises that refuse to transform into apologies
the truth that doesn’t to be gospel or holy
I will never call you angel
because you are why it took 85 million years to make us human
the courage that annihilated my bubble
made me understand that slugs are braver than snails
the accident I could never grow to hate
the modest eight wonder
the hoodie for those rainy days when I can’t find shelter in my own skin
a home knitted with silver linings
you put the ten into tension
the backwards lover in revolution
the nest in honesty
you are more than a basket
so I will place all my eggs in you
because you won’t pick at my scabs
you will kiss them better
for you are the romance I don't need to define.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

My Poems Spoke To Me

You can’t return us
Blow us off
because we are not a gust of wind
We are the rain that never quite evaporated
The kind that fills rivers and oceans and the spirits of creatures too pure to carry blood
You can’t return us
because your diary is not a library book
We are not borrowed words
sentences who rent out rooms in your eyes
Do not replace us with a more readable edition
Because you’re far too complex
To reduce your reading
To tales with happy endings and princes and promises
You started reading 500 shades of grey when you were five
Because you never had an appetite for black and white
You cannot donate your life story to fiction
Claim that we are adopted creations
For we are your most essential organs
The fallen cells of your ventricles
The sweat of your soul from all its growth
You gave us life
Breathed soul into our letters
Stop trying to abort something
That has already been born
You might be our mother
But we are your savior
Just let us nail your hands and heart
On the crucifix instead.

Broken Hearts Aint the Meekest

I'm still hungry for you
At least that's what I call the emptiness past midnight
When I'm alone in bed gripping my core tight
Desperate to fill my cavities
With a spill of gravity
To hold me down
Because we fly before we fall
And if I don't stall
I'm sure to plummet to an abandoned summit
And I can't stand up from you again
But times I dine
On the moments when I felt your breath on mine
Tangled in your arms
Swarms of butterflies refusing to rest
Let your whispers permeate through my chest
Shaping my fantasies
Cutting reality down to its bowlegged knees
It gives me stress
Sometimes I carve you out of darkness
And it's a curse to possess this imagination
The kind that brings you outside my mind
Before I know it I'm cuddling with my creations
Handing out invitations
To the private chambers of my heart
I get these cravings and I start
Clenching you under the covers
Wrenching us back together like a broken screw
Fantasizing about you out of the thick blue
I dive into a world
Where we weren't the mistake
Not the boy who took the wrong chase
With the wrong girl
I try not to feel guilty when I stir up
Things that aren't the case
In an attempt to sate the void within me
I speculate
That you've been struggling to escape
The same loneliness I can't address
That longing for me pressed against your chest
The wisps of my hair
The threads of my hands
And damn I can't understand why I'm falling after one-night stands
Trying to get back
To glossy twilight streets
Cracked train tracks
They say that the first cut is the deepest
But the first fall is the steepest
It's too bad that broken hearts aren't the meekest.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

When He Found Me

When cupid found me
He was out of arrows
So he took a spare knife from the cupboard
And shoved it through my chest
Maybe that’s why you hurt more
Bled through the bandages
Still won't heal
The wound was deeper in the first place.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

19 Thank Yous

  1. The moment we met keeps on splashing on my windshield. The droplet is attached to my windshield wipers as I sit here, trying to steer, and all I can do is gaze at it. The same interaction: I make a mistake, you correct and forgive me. Even though I know it's distracting, I love the rhythm it's creating by my dashboard. It's comforting.
  2. Thank you for parenting me through my 18th year. For stitching up my clothes and wounds, pouring in the occasional hydrogen peroxide or bleach when needed. I appreciate the fact that you do it and even though it hurts you to watch me sting. 
  3. This poem is going to be a lot of thank yous.
  4. Thank you for being so worthy of gratitude.
  5. Thank you for understanding honesty in a way I can't. For me, I always need to go right out there and say it, let all the words and emotions drip out of my mouth. You don't say it, but you speak it. When you wrap the truth in subtext it looks more like a present. Your modesty is more grandiose than my boldness. You figure skate on the thinnest ice and you look damn beautiful while doing it. 
  6. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm following the engraved curves you've left behind. I fall a lot, but it's good to know there's a path out there worth following.
  7. Thank you for being my floaties. I know that I'm going to drown because I'm submerged in you instead of the chaos. Sometimes I just need to be held up and your arms are always willing to expand around my form. I'm glad that you're affectionate, that we can stroke each other's hair and spoon awkwardly. 
  8. I'm glad that we can be awkward, or rather that we've accepted each other's brand of strange. Maybe it's because we have a similar barcode laced in our lives or DNA but I feel so lucky that we compute.
  9. It's pretty fabulous how close we are sometimes feels like a secret. It's always after the party or the hang out or the moment that we curl up in each other's dialogue. Our souls like to linger behind closed doors and that makes it a lot easier for our spirits to show their private parts.
  10. I'm always the giver in my relationships. I've taken so many scalpels to my veins and let all my secrets spill out. I'm the main donor in the connection bank, providing all the inner opening up moments that we measure close friendship in. But I'll never forget that time you told me I was easy to talk to, that you felt safe drawing out your emotions. That was the first time anyone has told me that. You were the first one to trust my big heart over my big mouth.
  11. Your secrets are the only ones I've ever cared enough about to keep hidden.
  12. Our friendship is a series of trust falls but life is a never ending free fall. No one ever told me the difference between falling and flying but I think when you fly you know that you're going to land someplace you belong. I think you're my landing. Don't worry, I'm not going to fall on you but knowing you exist gives me the right to fly. 
  13. I think your writer fetish is adorable.
  14. I'm honored because for most people that repels them from me. They're all afraid of being inspiration because we'd rather be the ones making art than being put up on display. No one wants to see their reflection through someone else's eyes. Our pupils are cracked and we like to admire or despise the morphed form that we call ourselves. The real thing is terrifying, which is the other reason my writing puts shivers in people's boots. They want the girl in the poems not the one who wrote them. I see it in you too sometimes. I'm much cooler when I'm scripted, and people want to be friends with the one who speaks in rhymes rather than thinks in them.
  15. Thanks for being friends with the girl who talks in fears and bad jokes and scattered ideas. The one who resembles of bag of Ruffles, creased rippling hair, greasy face, and salty tears.
  16. That time you helped me move wasn't the first. You've helped me drag my crap from place to place, showing me where exactly to hide my dirty laundry and tuck in my comforters. You are my motion, and homeostasis is not everything staying in place but every particle and cell dancing in the right direction to the right tune. If my life is a body than you are it's heart, pounding the proper beat so I can stay in pace.
  17. I've had a lot of soup in your room. It's one of my favorite foods, and I think it's appropriate I have it with you, because you're one of my favorite people. Of course, there's going to be another metaphor, because you're one of the few who still say I have a gift, and what's the point if I don't use it on you? We are the soup, a conglomerate of different ingredients, shapes and forms, that have a satisfying sense of harmony. They shouldn't taste like one thing and they probably have are worthwhile on their own but together they flow like water that binds them.
  18. I didn't know that I could truly feel happy for someone else until you. I know that doesn't sound nice - I've been glad that my friends are doing well, but when you're thriving, I actually feel joy on your behalf. Knowing that the world is being kind to you reminds me that it's the beautiful place they tell us about.
  19. Once when I came off stage, you told me that you were fangirling for me. I just want you to know that I am always fangirling over you. You don't go to open mics, but I'm always amazed by the way you perform, by the resilience, the determination, the fearlessness and modesty in every step you take. I can't act, (as we learned the hard way) so I'm stunned by how you can play every role - a friend, a sister, a mother. I'm just so grateful that you've let me cheer in your stands.

Sunday, March 2, 2014

This Poem Is For You

When we first moved in
My next door neighbor walked up to my house
And asked my mom if he could meet her husband
When she told him that she didn’t have one
He said that we came to the wrong neighborhood

This poem is for you, Mr. Feinstein
This poem is for the judges
Who said that just because my father beat my mother
It didn’t mean he wasn’t a good person
And that my life would incomplete without him
This poem is for my 3rd grade teacher
who called me up to her desk
On Father’s Day
And whited out the words “dad” so I could fill in grandpa
And the class that made me feel grateful for the chance
To feign normalcy
These lines are for the former friend
Who’s lips I shared for an evening
Who told me
When I brought up that maybe I wanted to be in a relationship so badly
Because I wanted to believe that not every guy was my father
That if I wanted a guy to stay
I shouldn’t bring up my daddy issues
I dedicate these words to Sam Shapiro
Whose hobby was kicking me by my backpack into the street
And once remarked that he always felt bad that I didn’t have a dad
Or Nate Matz
Who said he couldn’t stand me because I had too much to say
And passed me a note the summer before sophomore year
That read
Go fuck yourself because you’re the only one who ever will
And you Jake Dern
The first guy to tell me he loved me
But after our middle school break-up
Called me a slut in front of my friends
Because I wore denim shorts in August
This poem is for that 6th grader on the school bus
Who gyrated in my lap and shrieking
Ariel, stop grinding me
And his four friends who pulled me to the floor of the aisle
Laid me on my back
And emptied three bottles of ice tea
In retaliation to the vitaminwater I spilled on the first to get him off
I wrote this poem for my stepmother
For when she told me at nine
That I should swallow bleach
To clean up my filthy soul
This poem is in honor of Jericho and Syosset, New York
Who spraypainted
Condemned house for sale
On the dumpster in my yard
Where we put our only belongings that survived the fire that burnt down our house
Who labelled me as the “different girl” because I came from an atypical family setting
Who told me I couldn’t be normal without a father
Accused me of being a liar for saying daddy was dead
9 years after he smashed the crap out of mom and left
So I didn’t have to sell my life story
Made me feel that I was damaged goods
And that to avoid being the other
I had to deny who I was
Never receive medical attention for the trauma in my atria

This poem is for my father
But not my dad
Who laughed when I told him I’m going to be published
Never called, wrote or cared from ages two to nine
Pushed, punished, and lied in the second half of my life
For the time you started strangling my sister
And made me feel petrified
Helpless as she shrieked my name
Convinced me that I had a mouth but not a voice
For when you refused to pay for my college applications
Degraded my hit slam poem about body image into “a reflection of an angry girl”
For all the moments I’ve spent wishing that I lost you in some kind of tragic accident
Envying the kids who’s parents died in car crashes or heart attacks
Because that kind of fatherlessness is less painful

You are the reason I can’t be silent
Every time you talked down, around, or behind my back
You made it necessary for me to speak up and out
Because of you I learned to discard my shame
And replace the voice you stole with a stronger one
Every word I pen sends messages to you
That’s why they’re composed of letters
I’m not afraid to be an outspoken woman
Even if you think that’s synonymous with bitch
You never made me want to write
You made me need to
These poems are for you

And me
And every woman who’s been degraded into a girl
Every voice that’s been humiliated into a tongue
And past that has been claimed as merely baggage.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

I Hate You So Much I Had To Write A Poem About It

there is not enough hate in the world to describe you much I hate you
there are not enough synonyms 
to eloquently narrate my absolute hatred for you 
I hate you so much I can't even be artsy about it
I hate you so much that whenever I do something violent I relate it to you
so much that I should've taken up soccer or rugby or being a pageant mom
I hate you more than I hate my daddy issues
my acne
my nights when my uglier friends get hit on and I'm left alone
you see I hate you so much I get mean
bitchy or whatever
I wish I could feed your dick to some sort of vicious creature
like a starving cat or manatee
scoop out your eyes with a spoon and serve it with ice cream
but somehow make you watch it as I eat it
EVERYTHING would be in the RAGE
I hate you more than I hate getting my hair stuck in people's earrings
or mind trapped in the memory of an awkward moment
I hate you more than people talking over me
Or down to me
Talking to me in any stupid direction really
I hate you so much that I'd tell you to take a crap
Because you're so full of shit
Then tell you to eat it
I hate you like the calories in alcohol
Sorry I was just processing my hate for you
With my fists
Now they always tell me to communicate the why
Provide background for my emotions
So here you go
I hate you
Mostly because you once made me care.