To be born
your body made a pact with death
And from that moment all it tries to do is cheat

A boy who shouldn't be alive
Who couldn't be his own person
Learning how to breath without permission
And live without hurting

The moon hangs over the earth
A dead thing
Over a dying thing

most days my demons are silent
but when they talk
oh god
How they scream

the saddest thing about this story
he never had a .....
happy begging
happy middle
or happy end

don't be what they made you
you fought to hard
to ******* hard

I'm the monster
parents tell there children about it

The saddest word in the whole wide world is the word almost
He was almost in love
He was almost good enough for him
He almost stopped him
He almost waited
He almost lived
They almost made it

you are so much more
then your fathers son
you are so much more
than the wars you have won

history remembers victory
but the victory forget the lost

I'm feeling tired again
the kind of tired
sleep can't fix

if you think this is a happy ending
you haven't been paying attention
-happy ending aren't given to people like me love

they call you useless
and paint bruises on your sides.
you nod and stay silent

but then they call you hero
and you sigh and shake your head

they call you a patriot
and brand death between yours brows.
you smile and sing for them.

this is how it ends....
not with a bang
but a whimper,
and the ringing of cruel cruel laughter.

you carry your fathers hand me down rage
its two sizes to big
and everyone can see it doesn't fit you

"what did they do?"
"nothing good his puppets were not supposed to live after the war"

A dog that weeps after it kills
is no better than a dog that doesn't

my guilt will not purify me

i think you deserve a soft epilogue,
my love.
you are a good person
and  you've suffered enough.

you love each other
you really do
but here's the tragedy
its not enough

He was bored so you created me.

It was painful for both of us,
When you clawed at his ribs
Searching.
Your fingernails tearing out the calcium in his bones.

And his bones became my muscles,
And the muscles became my skin,

And i was naked,
and he and you were pleased.

He and i were on ambivalent terms,
But we knew we were there because you
Wanted us to be.
And we knew that was why
The fruit and animals existed;
And these were good things, we
Enjoyed them.

Later I'd blame the snake.
He reeked of knowledge;
I was interested,
I didn't know they'd use my story as an excuse
To pound curiosity out of woman.

I ate the apple
Its juice dribbled down my chin,

I realised things.

He ate the apple too; you were angry at us.
And i committed the original sin.
I realised that even though you had made the world
And me as a plaything,

My body would be a vessel for a new species.
And they would take
This earth from you.

teeth bared in defiance / a match lit, a match dropped / hands clenched into fists / words tearing down walls / jaws turning from loose to tight/ a knowledge that there has to be more / cricked fingers hanging from holes in fences/ kicking up sand / a shirt that reveals a bony collarbone / a low-hanging light jacket / long shadows cast by a long flames / strained abstract chains bound to wrists / a scattering over the night sky falling to earth / boundaryless blue over faded white / paths run into the earth / a dented green dance / a hole torn into metal / twisted rusted wires / a sandy red yard / window bars casting shadows / a broken wooden crate / footprints pressed into cement/ shattered window/ a cloud of sand

'You're a heap of flesh and guts and blood in a wax museum.
The only thing real. Sickeningly real.
Crimson and warm where the others are pale and cold. Revoltingly red, nauseatingly alive.
You're a child in a graveyard.

i. I wasn't always a house on fire, but I've always been full of light.

ii. Constellations get named after either heroes or griefs. Wild heroes. Wild griefs. The outpour of emotions within me is ancient, bronze-tipped, earth-changing.

iii. Someday I will return to the salt and the sea. Someday to the sun.

i. there is old blood crusting under your nails like rusting metal and you don't know if it is yours or someone else's but he looks at you like you are something holy and you forget about the sins crawling in your bones.

ii. he finds you in an overflowing bathtub - head between your knees, nails carving ****** moons into your skin; later you tell him yes, sometimes shower water against porcelain sounds like gunshots raining on your skin.

iii. your name is a whispered prayer that spills from his mouth and he repeats it over and over like a mantra; he breathes words you recognise from a dream and they condense in the frosty air between his lips and yours.

iv. he tells you that your bruises look like galaxies and holds you like the world has cheated him of you for far too long. tonight, you run out of names before he runs out of kisses.

v. hazy-gold sunlight sieves through the moth-eaten curtains and frames his face and you can't stop holding his cheeks in your palms because he is here, he is here, he is here, and you've long grown tired of wondering why he hasn't left yet.

"What does the sentence "If you eat this fruit you will die" mean for Eve who is in a place where there is no death?"

Did you ever notice how in the Bible,
when ever God needed to punish someone, or make an example, or whenever God needed a killing,
he sent an angel?
Did you ever wonder what a creature like that must be like?
A whole existence spent praising your God,
but always with one wing dipped in blood.

- Would you ever really want to see an angel?

but
i
can't
breath
without
you
there

why should god care
about the blood you have spilled
they bleed golden ichor
us ... us...
ours is rusting, slow rotting iron

in order to write poetry that doesn't spiral into despair
i must listen to the birds
and in order to listen to the birds
the war planes must be silent

i wish i wrote the way i thought.
obsessively,
uncontrollably,
with maddening hunger,
id write to the point of drowning
id write myself into mental breakdowns    
pages spiralling out like tentacles into the abyss
and id write about you
more then i should

yes,
you will rise from the ashes
but burning comes first

for this part,
darling,
you must be brave

young, corrupted by tragedies of war and exile
alone in spite of himself
boy made of ash and a honey soaked dawn
rust on his hands, in his throat, in his lungs
bright-eyed, rough edges, scraped raw and twisted with time
where is his soft epilogue?

"That's so cute. You think you're scary.
But mister, I've seen scary-
and you ain't got his smile."

He felt his brothers arms around him (a fight, was it, or a brotherly embrace? Either way, it suffocated).

the world should have protected you;
instead, you have been asked to protect it.
what an HONOR
what an INJUSTICE.

If you are so committed to being perfectly lawful
that you would do everything you are told
never thinking for yourself
you're not good, you're obedient.

I did not ask to be this
This hideous creature of crimson soaked skin and snarling voices
But this prison of flesh is the only gift you ever gave me
So I will stretch this skin until I fill every crevice and crack
And I will wear it until you regret that you created it.
You made me a creature to be feared.
So fear me.
-prefect little creation

"you cried wolf,
so i came running.
QUESTION:
am i the wolf or the savior?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
ANSWER:
come a little closer."

Stop looking at me like that,
with pity in your glassy dead eyes.
all I am to you is a tragedy, right?
Stop it.
Stop ******* looking at me like that.
Do you hear me?

I will break you with my bloodstained teeth.

" do not misunderstand me; when I call myself a shell
what i mean is a used up bullet casing.
As in, the aftermath of something lethal and horrific.
As in, an echo of inflicted evil that seeps into everything ."

"This is an apology
for the things I had to say about us, to get over us.
I feel most like myself
when I am washing crimson blood stains
off my hands in the shower;
and I hope
whatever is eating you alive does it as slowly as possible.
I know it doesn't sound like it,
but this is a love poem,
this is a love poem,  this is a love poem

until it isn't anymore."

unclench your fists, my love, the war is over now.
(i've forgotten how to uncurl my fingers from the trigger.)
be gentle, my love, the war is over now.
(i don't remember what it's like not to have gunsteel in my bones.) come home, my love, the war is over now.
(i'm back at the place i left but home is gone where i cannot find it.) sleep, my love, the war is over now.
(the war follows me into sleep. i'm afraid i'll never leave it behind.) kiss me, my love, the war is over now.
(my fingers still drip red and i do not want to stain you with them.)

teach me how to be at peace again

divinity will stain your fingers and mouth like pomegranate juice.
it will swallow you whole and spit you out,
you will reach for it again and again,
greedy human fingers clutching at everything you can reach.
the divine will curl its way through your veins and take you over,
and it will not leave you quietly.
i feel divinity in my bones like aching; like fire.

I am the end of all things
i have seen the fall of Babylon
i have drunk the blood of kings
I am a GOD

Isn't it funny.
I enjoy my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love.
Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands.
Love uses you, changes its mind, and leaves you hurt.
But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield.
It's hard, or soft, however you need it.
Love humiliates you, but Hatred, Hatred cradles you.

"You've been writing again."
Yes, I have.
"So, who is behind the pain?"
What do you mean?
"I know you. You only write when you're hurting. When your heart's heavy, your mind full, your soul splintered. Those are the times when your best words
spill on the page. I know this because I've read them, I've felt your words enter my skin, flow through my veins, and embed themselves onto my heart. So tell me, who's behind the beautifully heart breaking poetry this time?"