honeysuckle apathy on a saturday night

he poured something

sweetly nauseating

on his hands, soaking

through his jeans into

his flesh

but it never burned like

I once did in our

home town

throwing knives at

trees in my backyard,

following old trails that

led far beyond the

property line, praying to

God and asking for a

rebound

a rebirth

crimson on my fingertips

I bow my head and

cover my sins in

cosmic teenage love, drenching

my body in the

world’s bruised symphony

laugh like hell; you shall be dead soon enough

tonight I screamed

so loud over the cars

and the trucks, hoping that maybe

I’d shatter the atmosphere

break the barrier

oh, honey

holding your hand in a darkened

room is worse than

launching my awkward

humanity over a

bridge, hurdling towards death

but I hit the ground running and

my angel wings have returned

I live,

I live,

I live a little

too much, too hard

come up from the ocean waves

feeling a little too happy, I raise my

eyebrows in suspicion

concerned that maybe the sun

had burned my mind by reading

the local news and

thinking that another human

could fill my lungs with

fire and pretty words

when in reality I am plagued by

my apparent existence

tonight I screamed

so quietly in an empty parking lot

where not even the asphalt

beneath my sneakers could

feel my knees tremble in the

presence of God

I live,

I live,

I live in my own divine nightmare

the secret souls of gemstone children

melancholy-prone girls will learn how to

burn secrets in their youth

from the youngest age they are able, their mother’s teach them to

pluck the feathers from heartstrings

and leave the rest where you found it

the typical conveyers of the world

are the ones who like to tear you apart and dispose of your

goodness, happiness, smiles, flowers morals

they turn us into bigger things

which sounds good, yes

it rolls off our honeysuckle tongues

in an inherently lovely, seductive manner

and that’s where the dangers lies

because biggest must equal

better, right?

isn’t that the way the world works

these days?

hypothermia

southern gothic

churches line the

landscape of this town

in such an

orderly manner that I am afraid

to ask if it was

the hand of God that placed them

this way

railroads tracks that lack arms

the ones that let you know

when a train

is due before you step out

in front

and catch your death

sweet boys in

country grocery stores

that say things

like “hey, brown eyes”

and when you look out

into the woods

behind your house

a haunting image of

moonlight can

be seen through

the trees

and you wonder,

wonder, wonder,

if you went to bed

with soaking wet hair

the world might like you a little

better tomorrow

and maybe,

maybe, maybe,

if you drank your sister’s

perfume at 3 am

he’d kiss you

a little bit softer

monticello

whiskey breathing travel guides

and unkempt hair resembling

bird’s nests

hit the pavement in order to

cure your bloody nose

burn the pictures of dead

memories // grow flowers that look

like happy people

combat your growing sense of

terror and pretend that

you’re okay for now

how violently it dismantles a mind

she doesn’t show her

teeth when she smiles; I bet she

thinks she’s a model

she doesn’t let the grounded

patrons and cynical friends

hear her whimpers / for she fears

these sobs might shatter earth’s

atmospheric hangover

dull of having ached out

the exhaustion and poured her mind

into scholarly sources / searching her mother’s

drawers for six-winged angels and

blue eyeshadow, crying out to

God and hoping He might fix

her messy disposition

but what you don’t know yet is the way

you might sway back and forth

between pursuing cemetery memorials

and the revolutionary act of

carrying a torch long enough

to see yourself become an

ornate nightmare

prom night

you’ve never met surrealism if you haven’t stood in the middle of a country road, your prom dress falling just above your bruised ankles, feeling pure sunshine radiate and reach far beyond your fingertips

you won’t understand the feeling until you’ve noticed the hazy, yellow-ish street lamps that illuminate the length of unbridled striped concrete stretching far beyond where you stand. your mind turns towards thoughts of how you were throwing your body around the dance floor; glittery bones and cramped feet, tears streaming down your mascara-stained cheeks as you realize how you are finally breathing again. that was only an hour ago.

this is the part where your existence disengages. you remember forgotten ideas and you’re coughing up the bricks lodged in your throat after years of silence. have you ever lived so hard your soul bled and your ribs ached? I’m sure all the pretty girls have. blue eyeshadow stains minds like memories scrawled on a suburban middle-school bathroom wall.

to disentangle a familiar joy

staccato armor

like a medieval machine

a song full of sorrows,

doubts and tears

where is your sword?

have you traded it for victory?

or did you use it to puncture

your arrogance?

sliced it in two

burnt green

in the sunshine

of your father’s planet

at the hand of his lineage

destined to hate

ample time to disentangle

never to hear

what I said about your mind

because you and I

shook our fists at the gods

and in the face of melancholy

and hoped that tomorrow

we might rise once more

flammable armor

perpendicular machine

this world full of familiar joy

feels like laughing

and sobbing so hard

your ribs bleed

rabbit heart

women with freckled complexions

honey stirring in the pools of

their own eyes

like the countless mothers before them

with their torn and frayed offspring

resembling dead gardens

full of absinthe greenery

that still exhibit thorns

a synthetic, pearly reality

turns melancholy forth to funerals

with rabbit-hearted children

America resembles gold

delve deep into

the murky pits of your

childhood memories,

dreams, and feelings

recall the songs that made you

dance and laugh

cry and distort emotions

behold the hell-bent night

and ask yourself

if you continually exist

memories are sharp, much like a blade. I am sharper.

I won’t lie; there are parts of you that I miss

messy, unkempt

altogether lovely and brimming with toxicity

when I think of your face and those eyes

I see confusion, I feel contortion

what should be beautiful and perfectly incandescent

is instead shrouded by your inability to love

the love I gave you was pure

and clean

and kind

you loved me to an extent

shortened by your disability

to feel whole

to be grounded

tonight I’m thinking about last summer

and how it was ours

bleeding hearts, sobbing fits

throwing myself at the concrete abyss,

bouncing back from the force

sleepless nights

tear-stained thoughts

and the songs you gave me

I tried my best to decipher their meanings

all I got from that was a jumbled mess

the puzzle pieces had been shredded by my teeth

my own personal touch

I gifted you my soul and bones

I expected nothing in return, so don’t twist these words

in order to fit your pitiful narrative

I’ll probably see you next month

and you’ll be different

not likely better than before

and as for me, I’m something new

you won’t be able to recognize my heart,

for it resembles a blade

sad boy with the green eyes and pretty future,

feel the earth tremble beneath your feet

the girl in which you attempted to burn

has returned in a uniquely complex form

warrior, joan of arc

I’ll plant nightmares within you

I’ll paint ghosts in your thoughts

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