a walk across the park

i found something out
my tracing paper is what they call a lonely child
with poems bleeding from her arms, a walk across the park
i’ve written every bite of love i’ve taken from anyone
and no one wrote about me
i slipped on the tears they sketched of themselves
every possible heartbeat away from my cruelness,
no one wrote about me
a turn-around side-ways glance, i tempt fury in people too tried to grieve me
make sure not to waste the paper or time

i shed my skin hundreds of times a year but my skin sticks to the walls
i remember everything at once in a moment


tracing paper

i have wires instead of veins
and i have no tolerance for intolerance of numbness
for your desperate glorification of  emotions after loving Emptiness
i have been trapped behind tracing paper
existing on a flat plane somewhere behind a reality
one-thousand one-year-old conversations constantly on play
recreating, brainwashing myself into generations of nobodys
empty laughs and stabs in the back made me someone else, but she doesn’t exist

sewn-up disasters 

my only legacy is a poem no one read
and conversations cut short by bored
outbursts flavoured by wine, regret, and emptiness
it takes too much to fill a void
too much to fill something that is too full

when they say ‘…well, maybe
you have to count on yourself’
but I have no interest in listening to shaking heads
and numbness is on the tip of my tongue, top of my list

my torn up diary pages were in the walls
mixed up, rewritten together like forced puzzle pieces
inside my head, sewn up into little disasters
i made new places malicious and strangers
brand new unhelpful butterfly effects that made me too

ginger snap

they told me no one cared about me in saliva-shut envelopes
sent me away to sit alone with their lies tucked inside my sleeves with bloody and snotty tissues
and it’s not 3, i was wrong
it’s 4, it’s 7, it’s 84
breaking me up like ginger snaps, a piece for you and a piece for you a piece for you and another piece for you
save the crumbs for me, everyone feasts

sit on a bed in the bright darkness with the lamp off
you tell me there’s nothing i should care about because nothing matters to anyone else
and a caught out lie is an accusation of character — lies are secrets you stir inside you while dinner cooks on the stove and your knuckles bruise
it’s 3 days without food because lies keep you full—————

pretend people


everyone i’ve ever met has told me the same small secret with their mouth shut
wanted the same quick ending for me
breaking conversations with silence — ‘don’t you know how boring yyou are?’
looks around the table like it’s time to stop now,
stop in two ways
my only purpose is being their idea of a waste of space.
the three voices
they’re all real and i’m stuck in a pretend place

i was tricked into changing for the worse

and maybe next year for my birthday we can have a candle for every unmentioned (unnoticed) suicide attempt and my family can blow them out with frowns on their faces

maybe next year we can dance over my dead body with smiles because they’ve wished me dead since the moment i was real