you tried to scream until your lungs collapsed today
to give yourself concussions in twelve or thirteen different places
and you
think you bled a lot, but not enough
not enough
and this is not enough for you
but the world is too much for you ; mar your skin, beg the stars
to sweeten on your tongue. but rung to rung the climb’s too high and the stars don’t give a shit.

live or thrive or fail and die you can’t expel the devil
from your weak and shaking insides —

the devil’s been inside you
and the devil’s still inside you
and so the stars and gods see demons
where there might’ve been a human being —

blisters on your skin and tongue,
you’re done you’re done you have been done
but your head and heart still fall apart
you’ll never be done bleeding

scales swallowing your heart
while sandbags fill the veins inside you
like the litter in the rivers of the long, broad amazon;
you are the amazon, but your body
cannot move that way, it doesn’t
move enough for someone who is trapped —

take your pills  
no

take your pills
no

take your pills
no

three hundred is the charm, or at least you’re hoping, because the morphine is so heavy in your head.

I still know that I still hate myself, and so I’ll make my shelter with a toolbox, hammer broken all my limbs to pave the way for wings. I’ll pave the way for wings, and I’ll make something cleaner out of me, even if I have to sterilize myself with fire.

listerine, underwires, and shoelaces to choke with —
see
the monsters bay
in any way
they can 

she smelled of lavender
pressed in leather books,
she tried to breathe through inkwells
late at night
and tried to beat her heartbeat into
bondage — maybe freedom — and she
dragged her body into forests
and clawed her heavy eyes;
she smelled of blood and piss, they
used her body to part the sea,
dragged her through the mess
of melted poetry and
copper perfumed ink.
“another hospital for me” she hissed
“another hospital for me”

I.
i live like rot,
a poisoning of flesh,
and a venom you can taste
from many blazing bridges out—

nightshade rots around my crown,
and i bleed better than i breathe
and better than i sleep
and better than i eat;
the morgue will know me better
than my heartbeat, then, and
death is sometimes tall and
sometimes broad and
sometimes slim and small like bird bones,
but i feel better in the many cradles
of its arms.

II.
i rot in life,
madness with flesh poisoning
and a venom you can’t touch
but you can taste;
i scream louder than i write
and louder than i love
and louder than i dream;
the grave has known me better
than anyone, it seems, and
death is sometimes kind and
death can be forgiving but
i am so consumed by death
rot is all i’m living.

my blood is such a lying thing:
i cannot bleed the demons gone
but scars, they come so easily.
carve it in, can’t carve it out, i guess –

and every time i push the pain
i bleed a little less. i bleed
a little less.

cracking avalanche
moth-wing hands, a human shell;
instrument of glass

useless child, don’t you see?
your life is meant for me—
in every wound you burn into
that skin that can’t belong to you;
in every wound you etch into
that skin that can’t suffice for you,
i am perched at every breath
every nook and every doorstep, 
i will starve you; i will bleed you
and you’ll cry, “please help, i need you—”

and i will wipe your tears with blood again
so you live out your catatonic death —
because remember: if you try to live
i’m perched at every breath

whiskey swallows hot,
indignant flames bite sober—
we, a fevered drunk:
***
bruised flowers, red fruit
we chewed nightshade one sunday
playing god inside
***
the cold stings less
with red copper on our tongue.
it’s still winter here.