dreadfullydelicate

 summer-autumn leaves blink on the backside of my eyelids with such enthusiasm that it makes me question my own. the gold that seeps out of my pores and out my ears slows me and with every view of my skin tattooed with fall branches, i become slothful. denim plaster brings forth system malfunctions, and no, do not suffocate me,  no, my gills need water. for i am a captive siren, with ocean grit beneath my nails and kosher salt on my tongue. my eyelashes are sore from the truths presented to me on a torn cinema reel, and why aren't the sailors reeling me in? where are their rotting wooden rowboats with the teeny hole surreptitiously taking l

there's a boy on ashland street who wears a string of pot leaves around his neck and writes the pronoun 'we' on dirty bathroom stalls to remind us to be selfless. he wishes we all knew the beauty of drugs. the boy with the marijuana necklace knows more than we all do. and he knows it. sometimes he thinks his rusty desk lamp, named crystal, is the only thing that understands him. in that sense, he wishes we were all desk lamps because at least crystal listens and he knew that he then could preach to us. he had a common name that he would never answer to and only told me once, because he was different and a name like lancelot or caspian would

everyone watches in sheer disbelief as the long-legged, spindly spiders spin an intricate cocoon with patterns that wished they could have lived their own dreams instead of being sewn together into one, big quilt to house the girl inside. it's clear as a crystalball because maybe that's what it really is, but it's cloudy like dishwater because she needs to be cleansed. her fetal position makes her look about 10 years younger and about 12 years more innocent and her hair is the only thing that really seems to be alive. her ribs jut from porcelain walls and her lashes are sealed with dust and mothballs. she used to listen to the whispered fable

   you; soaring, laughing.   me;  sore , slipping.   sometimes the marble monster of my mind gives   into its curious nature and dances with onyx   and ruby-speckled demons beneath moonlit   glass fixtures, scented with cucumber. my   monster wears white-lace gowns and   vibrant, ice swirls around her eyes because   she likes the feeling of being pretty.   too soon, though, the orchestrated tune   would die down and you would leave me   weeping. she always came first because   you are blinded by the nonexistent facade   of love, because you're young and a little   too barren with experience.   you were my g

when i walk, i try to make the least amount of noise possible, because i don't want to be seen--i don't want to be heard. i am just a 5'7 ghost that lurks the shelves of bookstores. my strides and gestures and expression are graceful, but a flawed type of grace. i am the gazelle who, if her sun-baked prances aren't perfect, will be eaten by the lion. it is pressure. it is force. it is desire. i am torn ash tights on polar bathroom tiles and black and white and sepia and colour and dried seaweed. i am medusa; if you happen to catch a glimpse of the spring mist trail of the knowledge hungry ghost, look away. you will turn to spotless

i tried to make a list of the things i needed, and the things i didn't. but my eyebrows pulled together, because i could only think of the things i didn't.

with artificial candlewax hearts to replace our nonexistent, our skeletal palms were soon hand-in-hand with troubles painted a neon rose, calling, welcoming us. we sold our souls the moment our fingers became entwined with it's, and soon were were in elementary school again. we were as carefree as the lazy skies, you and i. we were as beautiful as the deer. we were as bouncy as the handwritten "e's" on our notebook paper, you and i. we  were beautiful. we were chalk-tattooed gravel and swollen wisdom teeth. we were fireworks and we were pistols. but every sky storms, and roadkill is ever so existent. every pen runs out of ink

they couldn't even look at each other. because when they did, she saw tie dye summers and dancing barefoot in the morning dew they had always said was painted on by low-paid elves with curled hats. she saw cracked convertible windows and perfectly torn jeans. she saw pencils and charcoal and sketchpads. she saw shadow puppets and singing songs from cheesy musicals that they both had loved so disgustingly much. he saw love. he saw understanding. he saw compassion. he saw nurture. he saw welcoming. for a moment, they caught each other's glance. 'i hate you' she mouthed. it wasn't the first choking, posinous lie she had ever told