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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.

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it’s the first day of october, and my wanting to hurt myself gets colder.
autumn is a mouth-breather. she looks like me, with matted hair
that reminds me of the kind that gets stuck in a shower drain,
lips that break into the early signs of a hurricane. and it feels

like the first day of october, a brain-freeze, teeth-chatter.
i’m once again reminded of those bloody noses i got as a child:
my father’s bipolar disorder abandoning me on halloween,
my disorder coming for me the winter of the eighth grade,
burying my first goldfish in an early morning snow,
my mother packing tissues every first of october.

it took me three octobers to realize i am no longer a child.
i live on my own now, and my mom packs me no tissues.
autumn knows me, but i don’t know her. she’s begging
to bite me, and i don’t know if i’m in fight or flight,
and i know this is why i always think i am losing.

it’s the first day of october, and my wanting to hurt myself gets colder.
she tells me it doesn’t matter, because either way i am empty.
I swear the bones in my fingers are connected
to my vertebrae, sometimes. I can’t be that wrong
can I? they both bend in certain ways. both are
capable of cupping my organs, if I try enough. and
both get stuck in my bed, writing stories in bodies
and in my head. there’s some tension there, I think,
like the orthopedic tells me when I am fourteen and
fighting another onset of scoliosis. but you’ve stopped
growing, she said. I’ve stopped growing a long time ago.
but one day, I think, the fight in me will snap.
there are no fancy metaphors for wanting to die.
i am a human who wants to do the opposite
of what it was made to do, and i am a poet
because i like to pretend my pain can be
an object, an abstract concept, a bandaid
to plaster my wounds. but the reality is
i am always gaping, a wound inside and out,
a running hospice patient, a sick human being
who will always do sick things, that will always
pretend there is anything else killing me but me.

there are no fancy metaphors for wanting to die.
i will always be the tired hypothesis, the conclusion,
another diagnosis, a cracked science.
i am a failure at living.
the poetic science, cracked

i broke that rule about a poet writing about poetry lmao
wanting to die is like smoking a cigarette.
it burns in my throat like grief does.
i’m attending my own funeral,
my words climbing my throat and
slipping down, like a well. the smoke
leaves my body like water, tearing
my teeth like paper. and i feel yellow,
the flames licking my insides in anger
until again, again, again, i collapse
into myself, and i mellow.

i’ll quit tomorrow, i say. i’ll quit tomorrow.
living diet
when hansel comes to with
the witch dead at his feet, he hangs gretel
off him like a blood bag, drags
her toes through the dirt, and he thinks
she has to be broken in a ballet,
she has to be broken in a pirouette.
her toes continue to click in her shoes
years later, a crunch that he is
reminded of years later again

when the moon hung
like it does at midnight, as yellow as
a sick child, facing the forest. hansel
is rubbing his blue jeans like he does
sometimes, the heels of his palms
dragging the surface like nails on wood.
it feels like fire and coal, a numbing
that feels necessary until hansel says,
“stop.” and when he sees her

her face is white in the moonlight,
the fire that flickers when she doesn’t blink
with her own eyes. hansel thinks his sister
is broken in weakness, her hair clipped
dry like straw, her lips chapped like
the colors in a sunset, blue eyes hazed
like they are covered in dust. meanwhile

gretel’s thoughts dance in the moonlight,
her tongue slurring like a stomach does.
there is lasting survival that rots deep
in her gut, that knows when hansel thinks
his sister is broken. he’s right, in some ways:
that there is an orchestra caving to its peak
in her ears, a kink in her muscles that warms
at the thought of fear.

hansel thinks his sister is broken
in weakness, when really
she is broken at the thought
of a witch.

it spins like a carousel in front of her eyes
in the form of gnats, buzzes in her fingers
like flies when she knits. it combs through
her bangs and tucks the extra strands behind
her ears, never lets her miss anything
behind the veil of her hair.

hansel thinks his sister is broken,
and he tells her nothing when she says
to stop. he only stops, letting the words
fit over their heads like a drawling rope

him thinking that there are sometimes, like now,
where he thinks that maybe there’s something
behind the dust in her eyes, but he tries to
break the thought under the smack of his lips
when he tsks in a wordless scolding when he
draws the chair to leave. he thinks that there
was maybe something that happened between
him waking with the witch dead at his feet,
between dragging gretel through the dirt
like a blood bag. the thought only festers,
crunching in the back of his mind like her toes
in the dirt, like something you think you see in
the corner of your eye, but when you finally look
all you can see are the broken things of what
that could be.

he hangs at the thought.
hansel and gretel, with ptsd
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Gothfoxgirl Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2015
Happy birthday
(1 Reply)
peaseblossoms Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
happy birthday! QvQ
(1 Reply)
SpiralingSpontaneity Featured By Owner Aug 23, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
happy birthday! <333
(1 Reply)
ganlynde Featured By Owner Aug 22, 2015
I don't know you, personally, but I feel like I see your soul every time I read your works. I cry at almost everything you write, and not just because of the subject matter, but because you are SO. INCREDIBLY. TALENTED. that it brings tears to my eyes. You leave me in complete awe, and I just have to thank you for inspiring me. I wish I had a better way to express what you and your works mean to me, but the best I can do is thank you.
(1 Reply)
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. :)

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