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Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade                                      
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.

she stole my rings
and left me hollow.

ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.

iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.

iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through
Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
again.

I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
wake-me-up kisses,
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.

There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally

fall
ap art.
lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.

he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.

"ad lucem,"
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
castle.

five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.
ExposureThe wind invites itself
from underneath my door,
it reaches under
it pulls open-
the leaves come in.
A bird hops over the
threshold and tilts its
head in quick, informative
motions.

The rains follow in
after the wind and
now I have to reason with
both the animals and the storm.

Those abandoned wooden barns
with one wall collapsed,
overgrown with vines and ferns.
The epitome of giving in.

I close the door
and all the windows,
leave it to the glass
to challenge the rain.

That little bird,
somewhere in here,
is searching for where
the wind has gone.

Thunder knocks
once, then
twice.

I imagine lying
on the hood of a car
beneath the desert su
i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.

but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.

we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.
String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
 what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.
ExperimentalistShe always said she was
An experimentalist.
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to 
Believe that the ability of 
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades 
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice 
In a life that was once
So happy.
A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality

Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils

Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she
this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.

my mind will be walking down a road
between cities

while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.

if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.

i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,

until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,

and explains himself.
Love LettersWith their condescending ink
They wrote patterns of gold
Upon parchment leather paper
Within letters of words foretold

Perhaps with this envelope
And its rose tainted scent
I can find peace in myself
In the summer days spent

Where I took in the musky smell
Of your heart.
As I held it against my chest
I picked up a pen and began to start

Dear love, oh love
How I wish to see your lovely face
These days, these mornings are
What keep me hoping in sovereign grace...
AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
at eighteen
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death

without ever having breathed
on their own.
Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream

She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night

She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings

Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green

Sunday mor
Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam

She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames

Ocean funeral where  Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie
On the road again searching for lost thingsLake bones carved into words
The slow baked Texas heat seeping into
Galaxy veins and Saturn ring irises
Like cross hatched road maps
Leading to lost cities gilded in gold
The skies nursing oil spills like a wound

Your cat eye palpitations lingering
Behind drowsy eyelids
Where childhood adventures of never growing up
Spark between neurons and sneakers pounding
On old dirt tracks
Boyish dreams of Milky Way heroes
Make up the constellations of your breathing
The TravelerThere was a girl
With a heart full of stars
And eyes that shone
Twinkling, like diamonds

With her soft leather satchel
She traveled through space and time
A soft sea escapade
She sought nothing but the journey.
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More from ~lalaith913

The RiftI walk under a bruise-colored sky.  I wait for rain.  It isn’t hard to understand that things change, but it is hard to accept them.  I remember blue sky and white clouds.  I remember the smell of snow at midnight.  I remember my childhood and haircuts and insatiable moxie.  I’m also aware of the aches that have started in my limbs and the restless feeling that arrives late at night.  I don’t sleep as soundly as I once did.  I don’t have nightmares, but I do not dream either.  The transition from night to day is a blur that I am no longer aware of.

Outwardly, a person like myself is described as feeling ambivalence, a
They Say You Were Murdered He was kind enough to give you a funeral and a tombstone in his private cemetery.  He doesn’t do that with just anyone, they say:  only the special ones will be treated like members of his own family.  There were a handful of plots surrounding yours that bore names of women who were just like you- all selected, all special.  He was kind enough to allow me onto the property to visit you since I hadn’t been invited to the funeral in the first place.  I’m sure you’d mentioned a sister, but it was overlooked in the flurry of activity that must have come after your death.  Details like family are so often overlooked when m
Capricious/Eternal, pt. 2 I couldn’t decide what I should do.  Do I go home?  Would he have already moved all of his stuff out?  Do I go back to the bell tower and try to eek some form of happiness out of his arms?  Do I mope somewhere secret?  None of it would help.  I needed to talk to someone; it was the only thing that might help this make sense in the slightest, but who?  The only person who really came to mind was Iris.

I found her in her usual place:  reading a book in an oft-reupholstered lounge chair on her back porch, a mug of hot tea on the wooden floor next to her.  In a lot of ways, it was funny that she would never age, since she always reminded
The RealityI loved. I lost. Wasn't better.
Five MonthsShe finished rehab, relapsed in hours.

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October 26, 2012
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Untitled 2

:iconlalaith913:

If they didn't want to keep us apart,
they wouldn't put invisible cages between us
because you can't jump over a hurdle you can't see
and you can't unlock an invisible cage without an invisible key.

When morning comes,
we'll catch the shadows of the children we once were.

When nightfall comes,
we'll snatch the shadows and put them down to sleep.
,
I say that if we were meant to live the same, there would be no clocks.
:iconlalaith913:
Boring day at work. Scribbles on receipt paper. Once again feeling disillusioned by adulthood. I don't want to be the one passing out candy on Halloween; I want to be the one going door-to-door.
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:iconundertheshaydewood:
~UndertheShaydeWood Oct 28, 2012
love it - and i am with you, adults should dress up more - get them out of the moribund caricatures they've become. that's why i love acting. and costumes. and make-believe. how's your store doing?
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:iconlalaith913:
~lalaith913 Oct 28, 2012   Writer
I don't understand why people think it's childish to dress up on Halloween. It's childish to think you're above participating in a well-loved holiday just because you think you're going to look silly. Silliness is the point. I can understand religious reasons (okay, so I can't really understand them, but who am I to say?) for not participating, but really, people take things too seriously.

I've been getting views on my stuff, but no sales yet. I get 4 months before I have to pay to re-list things that don't sell (and it's only 20cents an item), so I'm hopeful!
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:iconkymira12:
!Kymira12 Oct 26, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
The first stanza actually has the rhythm in my mind that would suit a song and I like this poem. I'm lucking I have nephews so I can still go door-to-door trick-or-treating :D
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:iconlalaith913:
~lalaith913 Oct 27, 2012   Writer
I've been so close to asking to borrow my friend's kids every year lol.
Reply
:iconkymira12:
!Kymira12 Oct 27, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
You should! Besides, you're never too old for trick-or-treating or dressing up :aww:
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:iconlalaith913:
~lalaith913 Oct 28, 2012   Writer
Oh I still dress up all the time. They'll have to stick me in a hole before I stop doing that. xD
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