haikus through process

your face tasted like
cereal after a long day
of doing nothing

we were so silly
we laughed at nothing but the
sounds of belly aches

i memorized all
your freckles, traced all your veins
for the test of time

when you told me you
loved me, were you saying it
so you'd believe it?

how are we so far
from loving each other by
becoming so close?

dancing with the devil 2

my heart pounded like

how the walls were pulsing along

to the beat, beat, beat.

remember how you swooned me

into your room and into your bed?

i almost gave in right 

there and then.

then where would that night have gone?

but i wanted to dance, with

the others - who knows who.

i had thoughts of the stars and of a

place that was not present, somewhere,

anywhere but there.

remember when you grabbed

my wrists so we could tango?

but i was clumsy with my two left

feet that left us

falling over

making a mess

banging the walls

hitting our heads.

what have i done?

i did it again.

dancing with the devil

nearly left me dead.

dancing with the devil

left me trapped in a run down,
piece of shit town gasping for
some fresh air,
yearning for change,
begging for forgiveness.

the red nyquil stains on the wall are
almost funny now that
you mention it. no i won't
help you clean them up.

should have known better
should have known better
should have known better
than to stay back with you

dancing with the devil left me waking
up from a slumber i sometimes 
wish i hadn't awoken from.

it's
all
in
your
head
wake
up
now
you're
dead

at least what i thought,
when i was dancing with the devil.

now i know better
now i know better
now i know better
than to stay here with you

pains

there's a soreness in my right forearm
like after having a bad charlie's horse

i can't do anything about it

it's more annoying than painful

i looked at the scale the other morning

and started crying

because i lost 10 pounds

from being so sad

i can't steal clothes anymore

because nothing appeals to me

i can barely dress myself some mornings

i don't think i'm bleeding anymore

sometimes i'm too scared to check

sometimes i'll hold it

so i don't have to know

this morning i woke up

and i didn't know how old i was

or what year it was again

strange but pleasant things have been happening

since i actively tried to stop talking to you

and you texted me today to check on me

maybe because you care or something

it was more annoying than painful

xxx

You'll always be first 
Tied together forever
 What a mess we've made.

Running from the cops
I fucked you to get even
Nothing more than that.

This will be our last
The end to our playground love
I try to forget

Shotgunning your vape
I tried to get to know you
You didn't let me

I don't even know
what your actual name is
but you made me cum.

For such a big truck
and all that talk that you talk
you didn't last long

I took a xanax
And your face looked just like his
And then you were done

I hope this isn't
the only haiku for you.
I kind of like you.

We finally fucked
then someone else came along
to mess it all up.

Back where we started
I thought things were said and done
Never say never

thoughts

sometimes i want to be healthy
so i can be happy
and laugh
and talk to people
without thinking
too much

sometimes i don't
so i can fuck up
and live
in this world
between living and
dying

if i am healthy
will i still have things to 
write about?
will i still be
interesting?

and if i am not
maybe i will create something
beautiful

instead of trying
and failing
and trying
and failing
to make myself
beautiful

The art of stealing

It's basically a game. You get in, you get what you want, you get the hell out. Make small talk with the employees if it makes you feel more comfortable, because the key is to blend in. Don't look suspicious. Cool, calm, and collected. If you can do that, you're basically half way there.
The other half is justifying it. But you're young, you're poor, you're pretty, and for God's sake, you're fucking entitled to it, right?

The most important thing to remember afterwards is to not get attached.
Because you stole it, you didn't work for it. You took what wasn't yours and the universe has every right to take it back. And of course, there is Karma, the bitch that caught it all on tape

So steal it. Steal the top and the cute high heels and the shiny ring and the poor boy's heart.
But don't think for a second that it'll stick around.

Blood

All I have left in me
are words that have been
pouring out of my wounds
like blood.

A little reminder.
A punch in the gut.
A sting in the heart.
A taste in the mouth.

The smell of iron.
Scarlett stains
on my new lace underwear
that were stolen to
cover up the truth.

Blood shot eyes
with bags hanging so
gracefully underneath.

Tired from sleep
and trying not to cry
tears that show
that bright red blood.

Home

If you look at my house from the outside, it is pink
with nice big windows
and a nice big tree out in front.

But the foundation is slightly off,
there are cracks in the walls.
If you look close enough
you can see it under all of that
pretty grey paint.

The living rooms are open
with the kitchen connecting.
So open that every sound and 
every movement echoes.
Sometimes I can't tell if my mom
is yelling or not.

Most of the stuff from my room is
packed away into boxes like the memories
that came along with them.
But if you look close enough
you can see

The time you slept over and
the time we made a fort.
The first time we made love
and the first time you broke my heart.

No matter how many times
I change my sheets
I paint my walls
I rearrange my furniture
it's still there like the
broken foundation under my house.

First date

A year ago I went on my first date with someone new.
It started late
and ended with the cops knocking on the car window.
We were caught naked and ashamed.

Weeks later
I was back to my old habits, former lover
but this time the cops weren't there to
break it up.

Sometimes I think it was a sign.
Or maybe I had enough to be
ashamed of.

Fiction

I took a tab of acid once hoping I would see the world.
I live in a fucking dream.
It woke me up, and I saw reality.
It was a nightmare.
A slap in the face, really.

You were a monster
I was fighting and fighting
I thought I was dying
I thought I did it to myself.

I keep thinking if I leave
Maybe I have a chance of happiness
as if
starting over will solve my problems
but what if it doesn’t?

Iced in for three days straight
and you are my solution
you are my salvation
if I keep telling myself
it’s because I’m bored
maybe it will turn into the truth.

When it comes down to it
I was alone
in the waiting room
in the dark room
in the post procedure room
alone
and that’s how I’ll get over this.

Black Friday

On black friday I stole a lot of clothes to feel better about how empty I felt. I didn’t feel like I had enough to be thankful for, so I took action.

On black friday I wore all black and put my hair up to show my face. My mom said to walk proud. I couldn’t even look you in the eye and I left early.

On black friday I got drunk off tequila shots and danced until my feet hurt. I hadn’t done this is months. I drank until my senses started numbing. I mistook this for happiness and woke up feeling empty.

Start.

The thought of what I write being on the internet for everyone to see is horrifying. I like writing about things that happen to me, because it helps me cope. It helps me so I don’t box it away and bury it with all of those other memories that I don’t remember. It helps me learn because unless I don’t physically read the things that I do, sometimes it doesn’t process. Half my life feels like a dream. Isn’t that sad?

I always wondered if I made an actual blog where I wrote... would people actually read it? Or I guess the real question is if I want people to read it.

Don’t act like we all don’t put up a front. Even the most honest writers and artists have a style they have to uphold to their audience. I like writing about things that I’ve gone through. Not for attention, Not for likes or comments, but because it helps me and maybe it will help someone else. But why would I want the world to know how sad I am? And the things I do to myself and other people because of my emotions? Maybe I can just label it all works of fiction or poetry and no one will ever know for sure: did she really do that? was she really thinking that? or was it just a character she made up in her head?