i've been afraid of people knowing.
i've apprehensive to put my emotions on display.
but that's what poetry is, isn't it?
at least for me.
i'm attempting to muster the courage.
i am

oldest sonsaturday night i held a boy while tears made lines on his cheeks and dripped off his neapolitan beard.oldest son
his aorta was pumping guilt to the rest of his beautiful body.
"i didn't play with him", and i made his fingernails turn into stubs.
he's taken on her sin and turned into that god forsaken thorn crown.
the family martyr.


january 4, 2009i want to get heroin chic thin. so i can wear all those pretty ragged, over-sized clothes with those tiny tights and pipeline pants and look like i mean something instead of this burlesque hourglass &january 4, 2009


july 9, 2009i feel like a shell of before. like es cargo, all the good shit scooped out. and I let some crab of a man wear me like his house because he fills me. and he likes what inside of me feels like. for a while. then he moves to the next shell.july 9, 2009
some little girl with pudgy fingers likes how I glitter in the sunlight. digs me out of warm sand and floods me with overwhelming waters of shame. and then tires of this pretty shell and flings me out to sea.
--
I think that is the perfect ingredient for this disaster.
you've been featured !
[link]
--
this is how the world ends.
{ from a lack of oxygen.
[link]
[link]
thank you
--
I want to scream andshout and scribble curse words on the walls.
--
all goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
and to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
-walt whitman
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