for Carol, who is no one
Mother, you lousy walk-on, you muddy old bitch.
I have become your good daughter, I have given you a part,
big as Mississippi. I have written you a new womb,
filled like a gas chamber. Here is your fat mouth
brimming with pills! This is no poisoned apple
movie star spell - you still are what you are:
a plotting, mirror-bitten hag who hobbles the halls
like a jilted landlady. Babbling on and on
about a ghost-skinned girl. Your angry daughter,
your bad invention.
Where did you go for so long? Why did you leave us
alone with the woodsman? Did you hear
I have five dizzy dwarves of my own? They have heard
all the stories. They know your real name:
Carol, Carol, we sing knots into your hair
and piss on your soap. We’ve built you a castle
covered in witches and if you should come, dear Mother,
to visit us, we will serenade your face
with a choir of hammers. Feed you to the river
in a dress made of stones.
- as featured in 580 Split
The wind bites my ears numb
and I try to make myself feel something elsewhere.
I know better than to sit so long facing away from the sun.
You’ve got cement shoulders and blades of grass for fingers.
I think of the six feet between us, then roll away to sit beside you.
And while we’re on the topic of burying things,
I dig for the memories I used to carry in my pockets like spare change.
Your dress was a white ivory casket. You wore asphodels in your hair. There’s not much to say. We become children of the earth again.
Sing songs in dead languages. Somehow,
this keeps the earthworms alive.
Tell me what
I really look like.
Respect me for what I’ve been through if you can’t respect me for who I am now. Please know that I am so much more than this moment.
19 Years of Silence
When your voice is low,
people will pretend they do not hear you.
The moment you decide you want to be heard,
they will tell you that you are too loud.
I am done trying to make peace with the world.
It gave me this war inside, and all this time
I’ve been fighting myself.
I refuse to be my own enemy,
and I only have hell to give
to anyone who wants my trouble.
Buddy Wakefield (via rarararambles)
i’ve never cared for the tricks and turns
of cornfields without red humming exit signs,
but your mind is the kind of maze
i wouldn’t mind getting lost in.
" I have realized
that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it,
that we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it,
that if my heart
every time I fell from love,
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now. "
Somewhere in the madness, she became our entire world.
Somewhere in the madness,
we decided we wanted her to live forever.
We sliced the sun open and carved out a halo.
Gave her moth wings and hung her in the sky,
forgetting that we’d never really taught her how to fly
and when she fell back down to earth
and shattered into a million stars, we wept and hung those up too,
forgetting again that we’d murdered the sun so she could live.
Left with so much darkness, an eternal nighttime
without the relief of daybreak, we were forced to look upon
her stars dripping with the golden blood of sunlight,
and doomed to never forget our crimes.
You are a broken wristwatch
in the dusty corner of a pawn shop,
all cracked face and crooked hands that don’t
know which way to point anymore.
You’re not very good at keeping time
because you let it slip past the cogs and gears
in your chest, but your faltering tick sounds
too much like the stuttering tock of my heart,
both beating in synchronization, and yet
completely out of time.
And we are just shells of wasted time,
defective parts that spent too long wanting people
who smashed us up against their own beating hearts,
because they could never love anything that only
reminded them of how little time they had left,
how it was always slipping away, past all the gears
and cogs, and how it wouldn’t be long until they
were broken parts abandoned in the dusty
corner of a pawn shop, where everyone
has forgotten how to keep time.