[x]

monstersit was summer when we met and
you were standing there with
the most vacant expression on your face.

your baggy clothes hid your body,
and your messy hair hid your eyes,
which i so-badly wanted to see the color of.

you held out your hand and smiled,
telling me your name.
i took your hand and told you mine then
brushed the hair away from your eyes,
finding out they were green.
my favorite color.

***

you were the one to chase the monsters
away from under my bed,
and after you left they came back.

remember the sun and stars?
i miss seeing them in your eyes.

roadsigns.i.
i have searched maps, road signs,
songs, hearts. i have opened my eyes
and my hands to the rain, fairytales
singing in my ears. i have closed my eyes
and let my nightmares and demons
find me, i have

screamed on the insides, heart
barely beating. i have dreamed
of my own destruction, whispered
into the silence, prayed for the answer -

ii.
could i ask you for one last favor?

when you're sad, remember the way
i would hug you. when you're laughing,
remember that my laughter doesn't sound
the same without yours. when you're lonely,

remember that i tried to fill your empty spaces. remember
that i'd fall for you if it saved you

childhood innocenceyou have a smile that could stop a
war and innocent eyes that shine.
you said you wished you were a star,
but i’m sorry to say that they die too
and you wear your heart on your
sleeve, not understanding that it can
easily be stolen away
but keep sailing your ship and maybe
we’ll finally follow.

the ways we destroy ourselves.one.

we were silences stretched out,
lingering in the pitter-patter of muffled
heartbeats. we were broken glass
digging into too-fragile lungs, we were
the shaking of the nervous earth beneath
our feet. we were bitter unforgiveness and
the screams of the world around us, we were
empty spaces, we were

everything but beautiful.

two.

happiness is on vacation.

three.

life is a sidewalk, he told me. life is a sidewalk,
and regret and pain and tears are the cracks,

and sometimes, he tells me,
sometimes, you can't fill them.

four.

there's a shatter in the next room, a broken
breath, a shaking in the bones.

we're all broken,
darl

not beautiful on the insidedear boy:

why do you keep running away? when i see you i want to scream your name in a pitch higher than the tide pulls, but even if i did you wouldn’t turn around.

-

dear girl:

did you know that it’s bad luck to make wishes on shooting stars?
did you know that fucking is just physics? so don’t be jealous.
did you know that –
did you know,
did you know,
did you know?

i’m high right now and
honest-to-god i’m not okay.

-

dear boy:

policemen are patrolling libraries when they should be outside your house getting ready for what’s going to happen. i can tell that expression on your face means not

drowninghe offered me his cigarette, “try it?”

i hesitantly reached for it and put it to my lips. i remember my mother telling me that i should never try smoking, but i felt myself wanting to. it was probably partially because he did it.

i inhaled and felt a burning sensation in the back of my throat and in my lungs. i coughed a bit and scrunched up my face as the smoke came out.

he laughed and took it out of my hands.

i shook my head, “gross,” i coughed again

and he just grinned.

-

it’s one year later and here i am:

tall, thin and alone. my messy brown hair falls unevenly around my bony shoulders. i’

opposite's day - collab.i. today i ignored the dismal beating
in my chest [it held me closer than
you ever did] and chased after you
like a lopsided puppy,
watching your skylit legs sink into
shin-deep puddles with indefinable
bottoms. i looked as you left me
miles behind as i shouted
nonsensical wishes and
honeycombed thoughts to you.
[let's drop anchor and stop
this off-course ship with
a handful of windswept lies.]

ii. your eyes are like my mirror -
reflective, deflective, and unforgiving.
[the only way you'll speak to me
is without words.]
one of these days i will write
'ugly ugly ugly' on my forehead
so that on opposite's day,
those baby blu

things that matter.1
even on the gray days, your eyes flicker dimly with hope. there is still a comet in the night sky, somewhere, singing your dreams and hopes for you.

even in the darkest silence, your heart is still beating, softly, musically. you just have to listen. you just have to hope.

2
you haven't lost yet.

sometimes, life feels like a horrible play, and everyone is outperforming you. sometimes, you lose yourself in the characters you play. you forget your lines. you trip. you screw up.

but it's not over yet. there's always a chance for a happier tomorrow.

but more than that - there's still the rest of today to be lived.
it's not too late.

3

memories.my mind replays
memories of us
each night, and

i am lost, lost

lost

in the shadows of
your eyes, the curve
of your almost-smiles,
the lullabies in your
voice, the sound of
your footsteps.

don't wake me up
just yet.

.

i told you that
i would change, that
i'd paint the sky violet
for you, that i would

miss you, and i could

catch you a rainbow,
or a heart beat,
or star, or a smile,
or whatever you want,

but 'whatever you want'
was not me, and

i was never enough
to make you stay.

.

all i ever wanted
was for you to say
'i love you',

but i guess
some things
are better left unsaid.

bambi eyesthe word pretty suited him rather than the word handsome.
he was coffee-table sex and a fake smile.

“you’re naïve,” he would say, “but i like that about you.”
(i never thought my naivety was a good thing
until he started telling me it was.)

-

he was sitting on his bed in a oversized sweater
and blue jeans.
he had one hand gliding up and down the neck of his guitar
while the other was strumming the strings.

“last night i had a dream that you were happy again.” i said.

he stopped playing and looked at me through his thick-rimmed glasses.
“it sucks dreaming about things that will ne

dear self,1.
tomorrow is not worth waiting for.

sure, there will be sunshine (with
a slight chance of rain) and sure,
some kid will be smiling, and yes,
life is still
moving
on,

but it's not like anyone cares.

2.
you just want someone to love you,

misery and tears and all. maybe you
could spend saturdays curled up
under the covers, memorizing
the patterns of breathing. maybe
you could count the seconds but
the problem is that there would never
be enough, the problem is that

there's nothing there to love.

3.
no one is listening.

4.
i'd write you a letter, but
you'd never read it. i'm stuck
screaming into my own heart,
wonderin

everything he never couldx.

it wasn’t intentional for me to become a poet
until we slumber-slept together.

he was the boy with wounds stapled shut.
he was the boy who would scream at the sun and stars for being brighter than him.
he was just another cliché boy who dreamt in black and white –
another cliché boy that never came back.

o.

he unbuttoned my white shirt after his mothers third wedding
and i never wore it again.

he broke fine china in an angry storm when i blew smoke in his face
and said, “i liked myself better before i met you.”
he always looked best dressed with tears
and i learned his lifeline was short f

asleep in parking lotschristian falls asleep in parking lots and hates the way
the fireflies light up his face when the sun goes down.

christian is a paper moon that doesn't shine –
christian is an unlit candle that just sits and collects dust.

“i love you,” she’ll say.

and he’ll reply, “stopstopstop doing this to me.”

tonight the bathwater is red.

i can't hear youo.

i can’t hear you anymore.

and dear, the atmosphere,
when thick with the faces of the loved
and the hated,
never did bid you a kind farewell.

what, with all the blood and irony,
was i supposed to do?

i.

you often would say
“live fast and die young”
but after your death at seventeen
it’s been hard to hear.

and i suddenly miss
the years we spent together and
now i’ll drink the memories away.

ii.

you once told me that when you hold
everything in it takes a toll,
but i’m doing just fine.
(that’s a lie.)

and it’s hard to imagine my future
without you

winning streak -c-i.

you're the kind of kid
that wakes up at the hour
when addicts are finally collapsing
into that raw forgetfulness
and the college kids are shit deep in coffee
that no longer tastes like anything but panic
and nervous wrecks.

ii.

when we were young we would compare scars,
yours were always worse
and it makes me wonder why
your head is always filled with images of
slamming doors, closed-in walls and
dirty windows.

iii.

one morning (is it still morning
if we don't fall asleep?),
you walked in with your whittled face
torn apart and band-aided.
i noticed, somehow, your clothes were unscathed,
save the blood splotches on

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 1.6 KB more ▶

More from ~the-chemical-factory

an artisti.

you said,
"artists only get paid to cut off their ears,
jump out windows,
commit seppuku with old butcher knives,
overdose and leave a note about how bad life felt,
step in front of trains,
or hang themselves from trees after parisian dealers reject them."

i wanted so badly to disagree,
but found myself unable to.

"i don't want that to be me," you said,
letting your artist hands go to waste.
"i'd hate myself and
just like van gogh, i'd die angry and miserable."

ii.

you said,
"it is so easy to be naked.
it is so easy.
but to be naked and unashamed,
that is something completely different."

i was beginning to le

adoration
do you remember
the time the clouds darkened?
we were driving on those lonely night roads,
our stomachs churning
as the road kept turning
like a giant maze hoping to get us lost
and our drunken haze did us no good.
how stupid we were.

do you remember
the time you tried to die?
i think about how it might have happened:
i see you sitting in that room with only yourself,
gasping and sobbing.
when you slumped downward
against the old, peeling paint
did you have a moment of doubt?
were you thinking of anyone?
were you thinking of me?
probably not.

do you remember
when you stripped,
bruising throats with finge

better ways to die"There are better ways to die, you know."

Eric looked up to see his health teacher, Mr. Wampler, staring down at him as he took another puff of his cigarette. He shrugged as the teacher took a seat beside him, taking out his own cigarette and lighting it.

'Oh, the irony...' he thought bitterly. It was half past two, and a Friday. He was supposed to be in class, but he skipped it.

"What class are you supposed to be in?" Mr. Wampler asked, trying to make small talk. Unfortunately, Eric was simply not in the mood for idle chit chat.

"Mm... English," he mumbled, starting to regret his decision to ditch the class.

"Well then, why aren't you t

untitled01.

I remember looking up from my book a few days ago when you and Kyle walked in the room.

Kyle was talking animatedly, waving his hands every which way. You were listening, nodding your head with your eyebrows drawn together. I assume you were trying to decipher what Kyle was trying to tell you, because he rarely has anything important or relatively normal to say. Sometimes he says things that are so ridiculous it makes me want to rip out his spinal cord and strangle him with it.

"Think before you talk," I'd love to scream, but don't. Everything said to him goes in one year and out the other, so what would be the point?

When the convers

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: April 26, 2009
File Size: 1.6 KB

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 223
Favourites: 387 [who?]
Views: 6,901 (0 today)
Downloads: 69 (0 today)

[x]

11:11 make a wish

by ~the-chemical-factory, Apr 26, 2009, 2:28:27 PM
Scraps

she always liked poetic boys, the ones that talk in riddles. it’s plain and simple why she liked him. he was like a scattered puzzle waiting to be put together. she always wanted to be the one who would collect the pieces and make him whole again.

while she was busy seeing stars, he would be busy trying to find his pulse. he could never find it, and sometimes it worried him. it worried him that he could never find the proof that he was really there. often he would put his hands on her heart and it would beatbeatbeat. he would take such comfort in knowing that at least one of them was alive.

+

“i don’t have a heart.” he confessed, laying on white bed sheets.

“you do, i can hear it.” she replied, laying her head on his chest.

at the time, he wasn't sure whether he should have believed her or not, but he so badly wanted to.

+

he once told her that he was scared that when he dies, no one would remember him and he wouldn’t be missed. he once told her that he felt like he wasn’t living his own life, he felt like he was looking at someone else’s life through a series of photographs.

he use to tell her to make a wish whenever the clock turned to 11:11 but the truth is, back then she had nothing to wish for. now since he left, when the clock turns to 11:11 she wishes for him to come back even though she knows he never will it just makes things easier.

223 Comments