Sam and I made a cute zine together and if you guys are in Melbourne and free in the next 2 days you should down to Sticky and pick up a copy because they’re only 50c but we’re closed for Christmas.
i. You pronounce “surgery” with that damn slur in it and my nerves are threaded up a little like Stonehenge. Huge and heavy and nobody knows how the hell they got here. Aliens, maybe. Or I guess it started with a dream that looks like this. We stand six feet apart holding my mother’s bread knives with tenderness in our eyes. You gut me out of my shirt and tell me the worst is over. It’s only going to hurt a little, you lick the blood off your fingers easier than maple syrup. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. You look thoughtful and then smile the length of a Denver city block. “This is one fucked-up metaphor, honey,” you say, and I never want to wake up. I want to feel something serrated in my chest. This is how I was taught to love people. This is how I was taught people could love me.
ii. I never got much out of being subtle. Failing grades, hearts I never wanted, the part where I kept myself someone else’s secret. I’ve burned the inside of my mouth to keep from spitting out my own name.
iii. Do not place those hellbound syllables in your mouth unless you want me fucking with your ATP, with your Maslow’s-level-ones, with your already weakened immune system. Even a dead body can be a weapon. Do you know what kind of shit you can catch from a corpse? Lung infections, cholera, HIV. You can screw people over without even a conscious mind. Put enough lead paint on your lips and someone’s still going to kiss you eventually.
iv. Maybe I can’t hurt myself anymore so I put myself into dreams where you do it for me. I can’t kill myself anymore, so I write you dozens of these poems.
v. It started with a memory that I convinced myself I dreamed. Your palms are still scarlet, with you my stomach forgets its own existence and without you it keeps trying to eat itself. You guiltily offer me the missing muscle, knuckles white, tell me you’re sorry. “It ain’t no big thing.” Lita Ford starts playing, I hate myself and I regret every moment I have not been kissing you deadly, it’s ridiculous, I’m ridiculous, you laugh like a broken stoplight. For thirty seconds the world isn’t dying anymore— this is either rigor mortis or just me stretching my muscles clean of sleep. Feeling half-dead is ridiculous. You uproot all 1200 tons of me and set the sacral nerves on fire. I hold your hand without flinching. We are the most beautiful ugly Colfax Avenue has ever seen.
one more time
everything i’ve ever wanted was to give away
all of me:
everything i am & was & will be.
i feel like i am
a spring overflowing with all these things,
and true and lovely,
slipping through my hands
so sh a k y
like warm milk
(like sand ,
like water) .
born an aquarius i was not
(but how fortunate indeed
to be born at all
to a world that could
make me feel
There is no such thing as clean. Do your best.The Things They Didn’t Teach Us
can’t you see
there’s bloodstains on
from the wounds you
He will use “I’m sorry” to mean “I love you”. In time you will realize this is as tragic as it is dangerous.The Things They Didn’t Teach Us
i am so full of blood & heat & awful awful things
Take care not to lose yourself in the mountain range that his chest becomes. Bring a map.The Things They Didn’t Teach Us
By the time you realize he is as scarred and savage as you are it will be too late. The hooks are already in.The Things They Didn’t Teach Us