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Artist | Student | Literature
United States
i grew up just outside of new york city but am currently go to school in boston.
i write poetry and the occasional short story.
don't take me seriously.

personal tumblr

writing tumblr


dear mom,
I remember that one tuesday after my first year of college
you took me shopping and told me you wanted to get me
a nice white dress.

you said, “my baby, she’s going to graduate college soon,”
and picked a beautiful lace dress off the sale rack, a smile
on your face I hadn’t seen since my sister was born, and then
you told the woman at the cash register, “can you believe it?
my daughter is going to graduate college. and I didn’t even
finish my first year of high school.”

the woman at the register smiled at us both, even though
the shop was crowded and she was probably tired. you
were tired too, because you drove all the way to boston
by yourself after work, just to come pick me up from school.

I remember when I was young, you told me smiles made you tired.
you smiled this day. you always said you hated your smile,
because growing up you didn’t have the best teeth, but I loved to
see your smile, because it reminded me that you, too, could be happy.

the woman at the cash register rung the dress.
your frown is a shipwreck. a car crash.
an allergic reaction. an asthma attack.

my lungs are in a panic, and I find myself already looking for an exit.

“I thought it was on sale,” you said. the woman apologized,
and when you told me, “I’m sorry, I can’t get it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”
you didn’t look at me.

when we left the store with nothing,
I pretended I didn’t see you crying.

I wanted to tell you it was okay, that it wasn’t a big deal,
but the bitterness that burned in my throat burned my eyes, too,
like spoon-fed honey does, crawling down my throat like slugs,
all because someone put a dress on a sale rack
because they didn’t want it.

mom, if my throat didn’t burn, I would have told you
I wish your smiles weren’t always ghosts, fleeting things that
come and go like a lost relative does.  I wanted to tell you that
my mother’s happiness wasn’t a lost relative, spoon-fed bitter
and cold, whose frown feels like an accident, unavoidable,
that chokes us both like the lace on the dress does.

I would have told you your existence isn’t an accident,
like the wrong dress on a sale rack.

I would have told you
I didn’t cry because of the dress, that I didn’t want
the dress not because I didn’t think it was pretty,
but because that dress made you unhappy.

I would have told you
I cried because you couldn’t be happy.
dear mom
writing blog

personal blog
When I was eight, my therapist would sit me down,
give me a handful of jellybeans and crayons,
and with the red lips chapped and smudged
into her teeth, she would ask me,
"if you were a room, what room would you be?"

when I was eight, I drew nothing: I only stared longer
with a crayon in one hand and a handful of jellybeans
in another, watched as her eyes dragged from my hands
to the paper, the blue disappearing as they constrict
as thin as my mother’s sowing needles
I used to stick in my fingers when I got bored.

if my therapist had asked me now
I would draw pews around me,
a dusty brown vacant enough to remind me
of church outside of sundays, the wood
scratched to boredom, a soft hum of worship
that only sounds like a chorus of dead voices.

if my therapist had asked me now
I would draw the judge a broken organ,
its keys catching its fingers with a soft crunching sound,
sounding like a mouse does when it’s stuck in a trap,
its sound reduced to a torso with an animal for a heart,
with its ribs keys scratched to nothing.

if my therapist had asked me now,
I would draw myself
as both a lawyer and a witness.
only sometimes I tell the truth,
and it’s only in these sometimes

I would tell her
I hear these voices telling me
to cease and desist, cease and desist,
cease and desist, but I can only think

there is nowhere to place my knees
in this church.

I am a constant legal battle
waiting for a death sentence.

that if I were eight, I would still be waiting for nothing,
my fists growing smaller, my knuckles whiter,
the walls growing thinner.

my therapist’s eyes would close, hiding the needles with them
like she always does when she’s impatient with me.

"your jellybeans are melting," she would say.

all there is left is to cease and desist.
cease and desist
me irl: i fuck fucking hate jellybeans fuck
me in poetry: death

my tumblrs

she catches him like driftwood in water
licking his splinters like a fire does when
the flames are only just close enough to
touch the surface: a dragging taste-test.

she knows burns that just kill the surface
hurt more than anything else, but there
is something about the danger in it that
makes her carry him, the driftwood, past

the surface. and she wants to drown him
there, let her thighs drown him like she
drowns him in his own pillows, keeps him
captive like a kelpie does when she drags

another man to sea: drags, like a cigarette
drags, the smoke they spit back and forth
like children do with nasty words on a wet
schoolyard. drags, like his lips drag when

they drift to meet hers. if she were a kelpie
she would describe herself as agony, the
thing inside her moving back and forth like
violent waves on the clear day following a

storm, that make her think that no matter
what she will do, water will find splinters,
that they will both be in danger soon, so
she catches him like driftwood in water

to drown him again, only slower.
the formatting here is so weird @ deviantart i'm the only one somewhat left on this website let me live

anyways i'm way more active at
or even my stupid writing blog
there was a girl who lived down the street
and one summer when I tried to love her
I only got one touch

before she said
with an index finger
rolling down her body
like a raindrop:
there is a storm here.

sometimes I still imagine her
with lips as cool as night air,
her shoulders burned by sun,

someone who leaves like she lives,
fast and without warning.

I am too young to know goodbyes.

she said she was scared,
something in her voice that
reminds me of a child somewhere
between being awake and asleep,
with a shiver alive in their shoulders.

a nightmare:

my grandmother says there is a nothing like
knowing someone that belongs in a bodybag
and I agree with her.

there is a girl who lives down the street,
and I fall in love with her.

I imagine her here, a girl who says
the word storm like she says the word hurt.

I imagine her like I imagine a storm,
and she rolls past like a storm does, hard and strong
but dies stronger.
the nightmare usually begins and ends with this:

I wake fifteen years old
with hair as short as magazine clippings,
nails bitten to dull knives, the inside
of my thighs a tired pink,

and when I look in the mirror
I know I am hungry, that I should eat,
that I have been hungry for a long time

but I can only think

that I am a meal
I cannot swallow.

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Add a Comment:
PyroShadow18 Featured By Owner Jan 4, 2015
Hello, and good morning.
I just wanted to say that I just read your writing, that gay kid, and it's a really beautiful writing. And  I enjoyed reading it. :) Thanks for sharing it.
And have a good day. :)

LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday :heart:
(1 Reply)
Thegamer499 Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Happy birthday!
(1 Reply)
Tangled-Tales Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
(1 Reply)
MissEridanAmpora Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2014
happy birthday doll ;)

Congratulations on not dying this year!

(1 Reply)
Add a Comment: