I keep throwing up memories
no one asked me to keep -
bruises shaped like questions,
the sound of my mother’s scream
lodged behind my ribs.

No one tells you grief can rot
when you don’t spit it out.
That love, untouched,
ferments into something sour.
I carry it all in my throat ~
half apology, half war cry.

You say,
“I want more of you.”
And my body says,
“Are you sure?”
Because more of me
means bloodstains on carpet,
means fists instead of lullabies,
means learning how to disappear
before I ever learned to speak.

I was fed fear in childhood portions,
taught to flinch before I felt.
I watched my mother
burn down her mind,
and still tried to build homes
in her ashes.
I held her wrist
when she begged me not to.
Took the pills. Took the gun.
Took the fall.

I was not built for softness
but I do crave it.
Every tender thing feels foreign,
like wearing someone else’s skin.
But you touch me
like I’m not ruined.
And that’s the part
that makes me sick.

Because what if you mean it?

What if love doesn’t have to be
a wound I pick at just to feel alive?
What if you stay?
And worse - what if you don’t?

This is my mourning sickness:
grieving safety I never had,
while choking on the possibility
that I could finally
be held
without having to shatter first.

they never taste it
just name the temperature
call it healing when I rinse the wound
like I’m not just keeping it from festering long enough
to stay pretty

I let them near
not in
they cup their hands to the faucet
sip whatever slips through the cracks
and call it closeness
but they never stay long enough
to feel the sting

I swallow static
talk in softened sounds
bite down on my sharpened tongue
translate their language
before they can call mine foreign..
again

I bleed behind a smile
they call me safe
like I haven’t been carrying a fire in my throat
for years

sometimes I scream into a drain
just to hear what doesn’t echo back.
sometimes I open my mouth
and it’s all salt
and no water.

I’ve spent too long cleaning the mess
before they step inside
apologizing for the shape of me
before they even ask the question

now I gargle saltwater
until my voice is too raw to speak
until silence feels more honest
than telling the truth
to someone who won’t keep it

let them ask
let them knock
let them misname my ritual.
I’ll be in the quiet
spitting out blood
like it’s poetry
and still being called beautiful
for surviving.

I wanna go camping,
I wanna bring my lizard.
I wanna smoke tons of ****,
As my joints swell in a blizzard.
I never want to explain myself,
To anyone ever again.
I want someone to truly need me,
To truly be my friend.

I died in my sleep last night,
It happens a lot.
When the lines are blurred, between conscious and not.
I go back to my true home,
The house where I was raised.
I try to call you, but my cell service is dazed.
I’m only 11, I don’t have a phone.
I’ll go next store on the iPod touch.
Or my walkie talkie, but you can’t stray too much.
But then I awake and I’m in my bed,
At least that was consistent.
I wanna stay there forever,
I’m begging you, please, the pain is getting persistent

When Ozzy Osborne died,
The **** store workers didn’t care.
They said, go get your green ******* hippie,
Get out of my hair.
I said isn’t he your savior,
Prince of darkness don’t they say?
He said I told you once already?
Go the hell away

my nose runs
Not cause I’m sick
It happens everyday
Because I pick

Dig my nails
Deep in my face
Leaving ****** holes
Looking a disgrace

my nose runs
Not cause I’m sick
It happens everyday
Because I light the wick

Pull some smoke
Leaves grown from hell
I’m an adult now
Who will you tell?

The river flows
But not outside of me
My body
As much as I tell it
It will not respond to my emotions
As much as I cry inside
It will not cry outside
As much as I smile inside
It will not smile outside