I bought my pillows
off the gun powder dealer

I wake in the middle
of my dreams
inside candle wax
and alternate dimensions

I line my teeth with bullet shells
and the mirage of good intentions

I cock my tongue
and swallow murder
like my throat is refuge
to anything worth
dying for


I am no more animal
than a sentient primate
capable of understanding
the concept of “I.”

What a shame.
Take my humility from me.

Make me understand
human isn’t a burden
if you know how to do it right.

I’m all sold out on wrong.
The turn of the machinery
rusted in my heart
is obscene. An affront to nature.

Burn me into silence.

I will take the heat of your supernovae
if you take the atoms of my soul
and make something of them.

I’ll even settle for a mess,
just need tangible proof
that I exist

and why doesn’t anyone understand
that won’t happen until I’ve shared
everything in my head with someone
that still wants to kiss me after?

It’s not your mouth
I need consistency of,
it’s your wanderlust mind.

I know the inside
is more dangerous than out,
but I am demon
and chaos is just another word
for romance.


I feed the rabid of my heart
and throw my bones to the wild.
It’s the good I always tear apart.

The willows know what to do
with the splinters of what’s left
of my youth.

The moon has been french kissing
my ignorance, those pockets I line
with disease and clawed-at hope.

(If I look in the mirror
I can see the bruises
and the terror
left in my eyes from
being just good enough
at surviving
to still be alive.)

I have taken the stars down
I have evaporated the ocean
I have rattled the Milky Way

so why do my bones
look so good
in the mouth of


i have been keeping the sun
tucked under my arm

she sleeps there at night
when the moon and she
have had their differences

we bond like that

discussing the fluidity of our compositions —
how we are both going to die —
she in a billion years
and me every night
i lay my head to sleep

she tells me there’s no difference
between eons and seconds

i say i’ve been trying to
keep the earth in an hourglass
all this time
just so i knew what it’d taste like
to have my head between the legs
of nirvana


the trajectory of the sun
is a dare i challenge
every morning i wake up
and my heart isn’t inside
what’s left of my chest

it’s the moon’s fault(or so i’d like to think)

maybe it’s the cardinals
or the bluebirds
something that holds a metaphor
better than my mouth does

there’s the dust of bullets and comets
lodged inside my vocal chords
so i keep speaking in big bangs
hoping something becomes

(or in the very least

chaos is a better fucker
than what’s left of the romance
i keep strangled
between the barren teeth
i choke lust into


i can be worth this. (x)

this has never been done with my writing before and it’s beautiful and means a lot to me, thank you for the privilege xo


if my shoulder blades would just snap out
and accept their place as machetes
guarding whatever it is my ribs hold
in prison

where the magic wears out rather quickly
and i make potions out of reconciliaton
to whatever i used to believe was worth
praying for

this was meant to be written in parantheses
but all i’ve got is a mouth full of theses
on theories of everything in the world
i look at too often

i asked someone recently, “do you
ever just stare at plants?”

and she looked at me like i was crazy

so either i exist in another reality
or dimension or whatever this
consciousness is

(where the ego has died
and my veins know more drugs
than the volume of blood i’ve lost
on purpose)

or it’s everyone else
and i’m protected inside this bubble
of awareness
i keep trying to get out of

by writing poems
by fucking
by popping pills
by moonshine

none of it works
so god created loneliness
and named it
self worth

so humans are the joke

but the thing is
i’m used to my heartbeat being called a punchline
and i don’t want to lay in bed anymore
with someone that doesn’t lay awake at night
admiring what dreams i haven’t let die

i may not understand syntax
or know the best recipes for metaphors that
know how to make poems
last for centuries

we all die at the end anyway
and if the only thing that remembers me
is the stardust i turn into after this life

i want it to burn
brighter than the sun


(it’s raining. let’s stand outside and dissolve into the earth until we wake up an eon from now as supernovae.)


Earth’s love handles keep the satellites from falling

this is the most romantic discovery, it’s comforting in an existential crisis.


I just read this article talking about how a computer has provided a solution for problems humans are able to check.

A computer has provided a solution humans are incapable of understanding. Beyond this one, there would potentially be larger ones to proof after.

”[…] But that raises an interesting philosophical question, says Lisitsa: can a proof really be accepted if no human reads it?”

Literally, our species does not have long enough in existence to proof it. It’s being called non-human mathematics.

what in the hell is the universe made of, did we just discover the first answer to the fractals of reality?

and even if we did, we can’t understand it.

I don’t know whether to be humbled or terrified. Maybe I’m human after all.


There is a burning hot temple in the center of my mind. It’s where I go to in order to take out the trash. One, the worth I thought I had when you never quite figured out the right way to look at me when I enter the room. The weight of that emptiness.

Two, my heart.

Three, those many moons I bagged under your eyes in hopes you would understand how restless it made me the first time you hesitated before saying, I love you.

Four, (or was it five, six, this may be all of them) it got to the point my bones shuddered whenever anyone said your name.

Five, it wasn’t out of passion.

Six, Fear. Fear capital and encompassing, my soul a riddle only the black holes of your intimidation and indifference knew how to solve.

Seven, I was never the sea, darling.

Eight, I was the goddamn ocean, I was tectonic plates, I was bullets and fragments and sacred geometry that makes so much sense you could fuck yourself to it, I mean I was vulgar and impenetrable, I was unstoppable, I was unstoppable, I was un-stoppable. and all of this is in past tense.

Nine, the days it took me to decide to leave you.

Ten, I’ve got a lot of trash to take out and Atlas is too heavy, so I decided to get high for the first time in a year and I’m not even sure if I trust myself anymore.

Eleven, at least this time it isn’t taking shots and slamming whiskey, I was getting tired of the ring lines of bruises on my floor.

Twelve, I haven’t even got to the bruises yet?

Thirteen, why did it take so long?

Fourteen, I don’t know whether or not you taught me more about breaking hearts or letting people break mine.

Fifteen, there are ice bergs inside my chest now and they don’t fit in this goddamn trash, so what inferno of a memory do I have to reminisce in order to fuel what I need to melt the ice you fucked my chest into?

Sixteen, I’ve been trying to find teeth that bite as hard as yours. I haven’t wanted tender things in three years.

Seventeen, that isn’t me.

Eighteen, it’s not a coincidence.

Nineteen, none of these are me. You injected my identity like it was a dime bag not worth picking off the streets.

Twenty, and you knew how high we liked to get. So tell me why it got so bad the substance always felt better than what you had to offer me with your company.

Eighty, the average beats per minute of the human heart.

How I don’t have one anymore.

Twenty one, I kept thinking I could love your anger into remission. I didn’t realize the disease wasn’t linked to my inability to love you properly, that I wasn’t to blame, that I blame myself for all of this.

Twenty two, It’s my fault.

Twenty two, It’s my fault.

Twenty two, I’ll always think it’s my fault.

Twenty three, all the albums I can’t listen to now because they remind me of the stupid love we were never good at doing anything to except breaking.

Twenty four, the number of ribs you’ve left bruises on.

Twenty four, the hours in a day. How the clock became my enemy when I was with you and now I don’t know how to tell the time anymore, so I keep missing the sunset and sometimes I wonder if that’s what you were after the whole time.

Twenty six, because there’s no way in hell it could have been me.

Twenty seven, and the nights never belonged to us, anyway. All along you were sucking them into your mouth, unwilling to kiss me.

Twenty eight, unwilling to fuck me. Oh, I had problems with that one. It doesn’t even need a metaphor.

Twenty nine, most days I still have trouble accepting that there are people who genuinely wish to love me.

Thirty, the belief I’m stuck with that it can’t be true.

Thirty one, the scars on my body because of you.

Thirty two, the perfect ending. I don’t want it.

There is a burning hot temple in the center of my mind. I go there to make wishes off shooting stars and what’s left of the dandelions that had been dying in the back of my heart. I’m counting them again tonight and wishing on epiphanies.

One — day maybe I’ll be able to understand that it wasn’t my fault and it’s okay that it isn’t happening today or what feels like any time soon or at all.

Two. I still take too many things to heart and I bruise easier than ever, but I let myself dance in the rain recently and surviving was worth it.

Three. That’s all it took. Return to the rain. I could have never existed as a mermaid in the drought of what vast emptiness you felt for me.

Four. I have enough strength and self worth to fall in love with someone else, because

Four. I am the goddamn ocean. I am tectonic plates. I am bullets and fragments and sacred geometry that makes so much sense you’ll fuck yourself to it. I mean I am vulgar and impenetrable. I am unstoppable. I am unstoppable. I am unstoppable, and

Four, the intoxication is so addicting I just might let myself do it. On weekends I welcome her to get lost in the rabbit hole of my consciousness, what meets at the apex of the many realities I live inside of at any given time.

Five. I am learning to accept my own madness.

Six. It fucks me better than you ever did.

Seven. That’s what it took for me to get it. Madness. I love myself better than you did.


I knocked my ribs into my heart

I want to pretend it was an accident
but who’s kidding

it’s easier to blame my insides
shallow and irrelevant
than think of how this has to do
with what’s in my head
or what isn’t
or what could be if I just knew
what the hell I’m doing

I knocked my ribs into my heart

it was the bluebird I was looking for
I wanted to wring its neck
and tell it to stop
keeping me awake at night