the poets write with clarity

they say the poets write with clarity

but my head is stuffed with tissue-paper and candy-bar wrappers

i’ve got nothing left to share of consequence

they say the poets write with clarity

but i can’t hold a thought down in my head

without a soundtrack, or a rhyme

i can’t stand my ground, and i’m running out of time

they say the poets write with clarity

build up the world in haphazard scaffolding

and hope someone else can figure it out

but i don’t know

about anything more than a beating heart and your hand in mine

they say the poets write with clarity, so fuck it all

i want to be young and irresponsible

i want to forget about the consequences

cup the stars in my palms like bathwater

and give them all to you

because since six years old, i’ve been scared of deep water

of animal instinct, and ice-cold skin

you shouldn’t approach someone who’s drowning;

they might just push you down in desperation

and watch your corpse sink into the sea

is it normal, that i think about this daily?

they say the poets write with clarity

but my words come out jumbled and free;

and the wind is in my hair

and the snow is coming fast, sweeping me up in its path

and for all the times i have wished to die, i thrash and kick and fight

and cry on my bedroom floor

play god, just about a million times

they say the poets write with clarity

and i remember cutting out obituaries at twelve years old

because maybe these people had no one who bothered to remember

so i put them in a binder

and i tried to learn their stories

tried to carry the weight of strangers

can you tell i was depressed back then?

they say the poets write with clarity

and sometimes, i feel fucking see-through

like you could put your hand right through me

and flip through my crumpled pages

until i’ve run out of secrets to give

click

8am; wake up. check your phone. scroll through the notifications, check again you’re all alone. check again, check again, find something to latch onto like a dog with a bone. file your teeth into sharpened points, do anything if it’ll just make someone look. look, look, look at me.

10am; wake up. bubble bath rush through your chest. ’cause they love you now, they love you so. and now it’s all worth it, right? all those late nights and stupid fights, and bruises on soft skin.

12am; make lunch. put on music, check your phone again. check it until your fingers ache; ride the high for all it’s worth. maybe you’re going to be forever alone; shivering and violent, surrounding me on every side. draw pictures on your skin. you want to dye your hair, but who are you kidding?

1pm; bathe in the glow of that silver right, and think about people who don’t exist. who will never love you as much as you love them; dedicate your life to a quicksand pit until there are no ugly words left lingering in your throat.

6pm; check, check, check again. skitter and look away. it’s easy to say just appreciate the moment when you’re pretty, and perfect. when you’ve got a yacht, and a million dollar car, and no demons at the baggage claim.

12am; they say you’re perfect, and you’re staring in the mirror manic glint in your eyes. they say you’re perfect, they say you’re gonna be fine. and doesn’t it all sound so much better on paper? twist the sheets beneath your fingers, and dream about strangers.


The structure of this piece is pretty weird; it was this stream-of-consciousness thing I wrote a couple weeks ago. I definitely have a less idealized view of the internet than I did a few years ago. I’m incredibly grateful for it, and I loathe it with my entire heart and soul, all at the same time.

suburbia

sometimes, i think i’d do anything to be like you. even when my heart burns with hatred, and envy. to have a garden, and a lawn. and something all my own. a family. i’d like to walk inside and say honey i’m home and know that every inch of this is built on love. and when i’m gone, someone has to remember me. someone will grow up good, and happy. sometimes i think i’d do anything. i’d shove my dreams under the welcome mat, i’d sell my soul for plastic costco wreaths. for something like home; something like peace. for an aching monotony, and vacations to the beach. a square patch of dirt, to set down my feet. sometimes, i want to burn it all down. that perfect life, where i will die forgotten. and if i can’t have it all, then they can’t either, goddammit. cause you have it so good. or you’re wasting away. or you’re a cog in the machine, you’re collateral damage, about to snap in two. and it still doesn’t feel okay. with butterfly wings slipping down your throat; a slow death of high-heeled shoes and pretty coats. i hope you’re happy. i hope it’s worth it.

i hope they don’t remember us

i hope this poem fades to dust

and the history books never call my name

’cause no one with a statue

got cast in gold without some blame

yeah, no one gets that kind of glory

not without the bones they’ve crushed

someone left behind, in the fucking dust

so i hope, my love, that they don’t remember us

i hope i try my best, never land on my feet

i am angry and bitter; say all the wrong things

and the words knot up at the tip of my tongue

i hope that no one knows my name

’cause i don’t wanna hurt someone

i hope it is bloody, it is brutal in my chest

i hope i climb up a tower, and i wear pretty dress

i hope they love me

i hope you love me

i hope it all is for the best

i hope i break down the forest, and i fuck up a million times

wear yellow books and die my hair green

and everything is glitter, sprinkled on my cheeks

i hope my little pictures, yeah they never make sense

i hope the gods in my daydreams are quiet and unimpressed

i hope my shoes are quiet on the floor

i hope i cry into my pillow

and never want more

i hope we buy a cottage

out by the lake

i hope it’s fake and it’s idyllic

and when the water falls,

it carries me away

you wanna know a secret? (i don’t know what i’m doing)

you wanna know a secret? i don’t know what i’m supposed to write anymore

‘cause i don’t have answers

i don’t even have the questions

and i think i don’t work hard enough

i think i work too much

spinning through the days

in a dizzy blur of wicked tree-branches

and jagged words, cutting up my tongue

wrap it up in sherpa fleece lining

and tuck it under the bed, where it’ll never see the sun

you wanna know a secret? i am a hypocrite

i am lying through my teeth

hanging on by a thread from the telephone wire

as the flames grow higher

you wanna know a secret? i am bloody

and used-up, and this art i’ve made will never sell

until it sells too much

until they’re looking, they’re all looking

and my name doesn’t feel like my own

you wanna know a secret? i don’t know

if i’ve got it; that bird in my palms

’cause i’ve strangled it out

i’ve spent whole evenings worshipping the light on my phone

i failed, i failed, i failed

a million times over, i end up alone

’cause the people i love, they are leaving me behind

the moonlight streams in through my window, the stars are going blind

so in high-pitched piano notes

hold my heavy hand in yours

and walk me all the way home


It’s been a weird year/decade/week, and to be honest, I’ve been feeling really burned out. (Yes, I realize the irony in posting this online, but here we are.)