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Waiting for another Dose



She’s a darling thing with spices and vices.  She’s a rule-book of anti-emotion. She sings to me from far off places when all I really want is to see the faces of the thing she keeps in her computer, named love.

When I slice into my skin I wonder if she’s gone all those places I’ve never been? I wonder if when she’s choking on words, if any of them are for me? If when the fire burns perpetually, if she’s mastered the art of infinity?  

I’m mostly sullen and alone, hiding in a corner where time forgot to remember I was always a good girl. I’m still waiting for someone like her to take me by the hand and lead me around, for the first time.

But, you know, don’t you, there are volcanoes where she lives, lava lakes lacking any sort of imaginings of fire?  She seethes with a heat I’ll never know.

(Source: writt3ninjoy)

Scar Tissue


You sit behind your monitor scrolling through an other world that you wish you could be initiated into.

An intimate sect of colorful strangers, telling you about this magical place called experience…

And you imagine a tribe of noble savages; civilized monsters sinking their fangs into the fleshy neck of reality, sucking on the life blood of the real world.

You wonder how long you have to wait before something interesting happens to you… but I want you to understand that nothing good ever happens to those who wait.

Prose is a long con.

Poetry is a bait and switch operation…

Stories are the webs we spin to lure you in. Because we don’t live on the life blood of the real world.

We feed on your curiosity.

We gobble up your feelings and dreams. 

Don’t make it rain today


Staff Note: When poets write prose.


I know. I know it’s hard to catch up with the running world sometimes, with all these running people. You want to get away when all you feel is left out, knees on the ground and so far away from happiness, you’re not even sure if it exists anymore.

There are bombs falling on the broken country of your heart and I swear I have seen your skin erupting like shrapnel every time you want to build yourself out of angel ash. The trees look like just a blur of brown and green because you’ve forgotten what life looks like. You’ve forgotten what life looks like.

The room feels a little bit sadder with every blink of your eye and the morning breathes dullness into your arms every time you wake up in bed alone and I know, I know there is a serenity in sin which keeps calling you in but I swear—

I swear your smiles remind me of angry pigeons taking flight in the morning light and there has got to be some fucking hope in that.
The world is in a standstill, or maybe it’s just you, everything is static and sticky; death just doesn’t seem to give up.

You have been bleeding through other’s mistakes since the day you were born and it baffles me how no one finds that beautiful, you’re beautiful. I know you have angry knuckles waiting to collide with all the walls that you’ve built around yourself like unfinished sentences hauled at a scared child with minor OCD; it’s a lie when they trying is easy.

It’s also a lie when they say the hurt will disappear because it never feels like it’s going to disappear when it’s pouring and crashing so hard against your chest you feel the madness caving in and your pupils dilate in order for you to breathe fine; you’ve been trying not to breathe fire. It’s a lie when I say that everything’s gonna be okay, but don’t you see? I don’t want you to ever stop breathing and beating your heart for star clusters and life.

So when they say you’re gone without repair I will tell them that I have searched for sunflowers in your spine because you always make the sun trail behind you. I have screamed a million whispers to the welkin saying don’t make it rain today because I have seen clouds inside your eyes, felt the rush caught up in your hair, felt your hunger to fly; everyone knows the sky is a much better blue than the fault lines of the engulfing sea.

Seasons change and stay the same.


You’ll love someone so much that in those moments- in those nights you spend trying to scrape their name away from the spaces in your rib cage, in the mornings you wake to find that they’ve clawed back in again- you will convince yourself that they are never going to leave. That winter will push silently into spring, petals bursting into summer, sunshine leaking into rainfall, but the seasons of your heart will still bow to the reasons in their soul. You will steal glances at them from across the room and wonder when the sight of that smile will stop breaking cocoons in your stomach, stop making tornadoes in your head, stop sending poems shuddering down your spine. 

You’ll love someone so much that it will stop being about them taking a piece of you, and will become about the way they crawled inside and spray painted every shard with their name just so you will never be the same again. You’ll peel back your skin and find remnants of the way they used to make you feel splintering through your bones, and you’ll wonder if you’ll ever grow out of this.

Basically, there are people out there in this world that are so unbelievably exquisite that even space won’t stop you from falling because the only gravity you will need will rest in the way they say your name when they love you too. But most of the time, it will feel as though these people are too busy to deal with your heart, to try to understand its beat, to help it sing a softer song. And it will take you nights and dawns full with your fingers through your chest trying to screech them away again and again, until one day you learn to unclench your fist. You learn to let them be where they are- inside of you, despite of you.  You get up off the floor of your faith and start walking again, start stepping out out of yourself to smell the sunshine in the spring time air, to feel the snow fall when winter kisses trees bare. You’ll belong to yourself again. 

You’ll realise that people find you in seasons, and autumn will always come where the leaving begins to bloom. You’ll understand somehow through the light that leaks from the slit between the door of your despair and the ground you built beneath it, that if that person who you were so unendurably in love with can walk away and out of your life without a second glance, the ache they brought with them can pack its bags too. You will realise this slowly, silently, subtly- that maybe one morning the sun will yawn through your windowpane and you won’t long for them anymore. You will belong to yourself again. And maybe the next time you fall, your gravity might stay put right in the heart of your chest- just a little to the left.

Dear You,


When I was a child, I found some ammonia. I’m not sure why, but curiosity got the best of me, and I took a deep whiff from the bottle. It felt like I had just inhaled fire. The sharp aroma shooting up my nostrils and making my eyes tear up.

It was one of the most jolting sensations I’ve ever experienced, sort of terrible and overwhelming, but somehow… refreshing. It was one of those moments when I felt truly awake. Later that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I never wanted to sniff ammonia again, afraid that I would melt my sinuses and burn away my sense of smell, but that wide-eyed feeling of recognition… the mixture of surprise, pain, fear, and reverence that something could elicit such a powerful and immediate response from me… always stayed with me. I think that I’ve been searching for it every day since then, in one form or another.

If you ever wondered why I fell in love with your writing, it has a lot to do with this childhood memory of learning something so profund, instantaneously. For acquiring a taste for things that entice me, even in uncomfortable ways, to feel… something. When I read you, it’s like a sucker punch to the face, or gut, something that makes me flinch or double over. It’s almost reflexive; whether it’s emotionally or intellectual. 

And sometimes you wrap your hand around the throat of my darkness, that primordial beast that struggles in tar pit of my shadow, and you pluck it from the ooze to let it run rampant through my consciousness… but still dictated by the will and pressure of your fingers, within the confines of your narrative and under your creative thumb. Which lets me feel safe, even if there’s real danger implied. 

No one else has ever dialed me in that way, channeling all the conflicted parts of me into a singularity of want… and that’s just your words that have this spectacular effect on me. Can you even imagine what the rest of you does to me?

Sometimes I can be fickle… but I know that as long as I sense there’s something between us to hold onto, I… could really feel this way for the rest of my life. Which is very uncomfortable… maybe even a tad embarrassing to admit… especially for someone who has a tendency to expect the ground to open up and swallow me down at any moment. 

But, I believe in you. And I’d rather just enjoy the time we’re together than being worried about if/when/how it will end. 

I’m just glad you’re not a pungent chemical… because if that bottle of ammonia had been you, I would have burned a hole in my face ages ago. 

My Secret Dalliance With Self-Dissolution: Valentine's Day


Editor’s Note: Thoughtful. 


Between all our holidays and celebrations, every day is special for us now.  Every day is some patron saint’s or national festival, dedicated to feeling better.  We don’t feel better, though.  We get stressed over having to plan parties, the weight we’ll gain, the people that will be there, if we’ll be able to drive home, if we can even remember in the morning what it was like.  We’re trying too hard to be happy, forcing it on ourselves and it comes out all stunted and wrong, legs too long and head full of misconceptions.  We make the things happen because we feel pressured to have a good time, to enjoy our life because it’s the only one we have.  

I think we have a thousand lives, they’re just all happening with once.  Each person I see views me differently, and I’m different in their eyes from anyone else’s.  One might think I have a nice shirt, another that I looked at her sister weird, but it’s all the same me, living as many different lives as can the sun set on.  Feeling better should not be about excuses to drown the liver and pound the headache pills, nor should it become a reason to look down on ourselves because we’re not celebrated.  Just because you are uncommitted for Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean you’re alone; I know enough waiting in the hold of a relationship, feeling more alone than they would single because their special someone couldn’t make the time for them on that day.  For all you know, a hundred people are thinking about you today, and each one only wants to see you smile.  We need to stop feeling bad because of holidays; they’re meant to make us smile and enjoy life, to value what’s out there.  If we spend all our time focusing on how we’ll never properly enjoy those days, instead of just waiting for one that does brighten the monotonous week it adorns, they’re worse than nothing being there.

Stop feeling guilty because you aren’t celebrating or “properly” enjoying one of these days, especially one about finding love.  You can’t send chocolate to the job that you’ve always wanted, no flowers to the place you’ve always wanted to live, and no passionate kiss for knowing you’ve finally felt proud of yourself and worthy of living, so how can we say it’s a day about love?  Love what you will, person or not, but don’t feel guilty about being “alone”, because those most alone are the ones tearing out the rest of themselves to make room for the guilt of that day not living up to their dreams.


So much this.


staff note: this is great.


I once thought that home was in the arms of a mother, cradled against the heartbeat which hatched my own. I once thought that home was found between lines G and B, stroked with a horse-stringed bow, and perfected with a fork knocked gracefully against a countertop. I once thought that home was in chocolate kisses, and the father who gave them to me. I once thought that home was the rusty old springs of a trampoline, which creaked and moaned in warm, Texas summers. 
But, the mother’s arms are filled with a man who leaves just as quickly as he comes. The horse-strings snap from the bow, and the fork bends, altering space A out of tune, and throwing the music off into an unreadable key. The chocolate kisses go straight to the thighs, and the father who gave them laughs drunkenly, and drives away towards the stormy horizon which swallows him whole. The springs uncoil and the trampoline breaks, spilling the secrets it promised to keep.
I looked for home at the bottom of a bottle. I looked for home in the smoke as it drifted towards the sky, shielding the waxing moon. I looked for home in fluorescent lights and synthesized melodies, with a pill under my tongue, pointing out the way. I looked for home in the tequila-tasting mouth of a boy, with wandering hands in my pockets and slurred whispers in my ears.
But, the bottles break and the smoke fades, and the lights go out, just as the serotonin awakens in my body, and the contents within it, and the boy brushes his teeth, removing the bitter taste of tequila, and of me.
I thought I found home in the back of your truck. I thought I found home in your dog, your swimming pool, your tripod that I always knocked over, and your grey/white comforter that covered your bed. I thought I found home in your golden hair and your hazel eyes.
But, now you’re gone, and I’m left trotting down an empty street, with only the voices in my head, and my shadow to comfort me, and I realize that I have no idea where home lay. If home is where the heart is, it is under the soles of every person that has ever walked away; the full armed mother, the chocolate kissed father, the tequila mouthed boy, and you. It is buried beneath the gravel of the road to hell which I paved myself. It is in the clock work of every compass which has pointed in the wrong direction, and has never guided me back. No, if home is where the heart is, I think I’d rather wander for eternity.

'Window' by Andrea Gibson.


Lead Staff Note: Lovely.


If everything is a window, if the wound is a window, if heartbreak is a window, if grief is a window, if the storm is a window, if illness is a window, if loss is a window, you will say you live in a house made entirely of glass, you will say the moon is so close you can catch its reflection on your silver spoon, you will say your spoon is a silver spoon, you will feed yourself light, you will be hungry for nothing but people whose hearts will never close the blinds.  



Staff Note: Just read it. 


365 days in a year and I can’t seem to remember which one’s end in even numbers. The months are personified and our memories become events, or downfalls, or missteps. There are no celebrations left to remember.

January is frigid and ferocious. The New Year and thousands of changes as he dangles a cigarette over my mouth with a smile and inhales. We are giants at large, stealing old candy canes from left over pine trees and taking ownership of promises we couldn’t keep. Reserving batteries and using our bodies to heat up the already sweating walls. We are always taking stock of what matters most.

February is a heartbreaker. Her round, perky ass and her bitten lips reflect in the pools of my eyes. Her orange cream perfume is dabbed perfectly between her wrists. I want her, but no, I don’t. Oh, her taste; so maroon and copasetic. I feel her arthritic hands aching between pulsing thighs.

March brings the madness and soon we are all banging pots and pans together on the nylon kitchen floor. Sick from electric power and the sickly sweet smell of firewood fizzling out from the wind. It rains every day and the streets flood with saplings and Pinocchio noses and dust. And he comes like a lion.

April is coy and curses under her breath as the rain stops pounding the crumbling pavement for the first time in thirty days. She brings a soft sunlight and glowing skin and bare knees. The grass flourishes as the flowers burst from their seedlings and spiral up towards the sky. We lose fifteen pounds after our winter breakup. Fresh blueberry ice cream doesn’t taste the same anymore.

May is the sick smell of head colds in the morning. June shakes my wrists and pushes me to the cold ocean, dragging me out with the rip tides and letting me drown. July is a melted Popsicle and a heaping helping of pound cake with whipped cream slathered on it. August is a day spent in bed filled with longing and overwhelming regret.

September is forgiveness and very thin sweatshirts. October is another year older, wearing last year’s boots. November is the written word foraging for food in a forest made of paperbacks. We hardly ever return. December is strung out on heroine and the ache of another year gone and lost.

And that’s the saddest part of each year. One year you’re something and the next you’re nothing and maybe one day you’re dead or maybe one day you decide to live forever. This month has been a nightmare wrapped in cellophane. Somehow I can see all the fault lines and hairline cracks, yet I am still going on with my mornings. I taste the apple in my mouth. Chunks of juicy fruit sliding down my chin and that’s it. We are William Tell and his failed attempts at rapture. Benjamin Franklin and his favorite kind of coffee.  Simple humans that let sleeping dogs lie.

We are all a watermark, leaving our fingerprints on everything we touch. I reach my hands out towards the ocean. I have finally realized that we are the seasons, changing violently and without reserve, leaving everything and nothing behind all at once.

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