So I eat my own heart

because the grind of my teeth against my flesh,

the feel of my own muscle tearing through my body,

and the bitter taste it leaves in my mouth,

could never compare to the pain of you losing me.

I will devour myself so that no one else can

and I will stake my claim because no one else deserves

to claim me.

I am not your anchor.

I can barely keep myself at bay,

I can’t keep you grounded, too.

What is Beauty?

You say, “Beauty is when you realize something important.”

So then, Beauty is tax season?

Every year I realize I have no money;

I’d say that’s pretty important.

He says,

“Beauty is something that stirs something up.”

Beauty, then, must be a spoon

Or, if you’re the technological sort,

An electric mixer.

She says, “Beauty is dependent on people.”

Apparently, Beauty is a toddler,

Seemingly one that requires

Hourly diaper changes.

You try again, “Beauty is something that provokes thought.”

All these times I’d seen Star Wars,

I assumed Obi-wan was using celestial energy,

When really, he was just smacking Stormtroopers upside the head with Beauty.

One last shot in the dark, “Beauty is something that captures people’s attention.”

I’m sorry, but what I’m hearing is,

Beauty is a fart?

When gas is passed,

Everybody knows,

One way or another.

No, Beauty is a thing that is not a thing,

A science that cannot be measured,

Abstract, yet concrete.

Beauty is a contradiction.

A zombie, if you will.

I am not fragile

I am not a princess hiding behind 

slithering dresses and frilly words.

You cannot impress me with strength and brutality.

You cannot fight for my honor because

I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.

I am not meek and mild and respectable

and I don’t need you to fight for me.

I am a warrior,

and I need you to fight with me.

My hands are bloodied from the

demons I fight every day,

but still I am surrounded,

so grab your sword and fight with me.

Stand by my side.

Bandage my skin when it bleeds,

wrap up my mind when it breaks,

encase my heart when it shatters.

I don’t need a hero, I need a healer.

I am fierce, unbent and unbroken.

So please, be gentle, unwavering and unrelenting.

The Child

Blue foil floating with helium

A bloated star

Stark against the snow,

Given to a young boy by adoring parents

With whom he’d spent long hours.

Talked. Laughed. Played.

His blue balloon carries the dreams

He no longer can.

Its silver string tied to the flowers

At the foot of his tombstone.

I am smoke

Invisible but that I

obscure things more important.

No more than the warning of

Desire, Destruction, and Desperation.

Inhale me.

Let me permeate your lungs

swim through your veins

corrupting your blood 

until it flows ink.

Exhale me.

Somehow purer than I was before.

I left my evil

caked to the inside of your lungs

Even now, I scar you.

Inhale me.

I inhabit your nerves

Until I’m all you think of

and you hold me inside 

knowing I will destroy you.

Exhale me.

At last, relief.

When you can keep me no longer

and I escape, floating to heights of which

you can only dream.

Inhale me.

like a grenade I scar

every part of your being

until at last I realize

I don’t need you.

Exhale me.

So clean you can’t differentiate me

from the clouds I reach for.

You eat and taste me,

Sniff your clothes and smell me,

Listen to a melody and hear me,

but I am not there

to obscure things less important.

Inhale, Exhale, Inhale, Exhale

Until you can breathe no more.


I can’t feel a damn thing.

Shatter my obsidian armor,

let the shards shred my soul.

The walls of my world come crashing around me.

Blood clots hang from the walls, the ceiling, my hands.

And even covered in blood,

the sticky steam coiling off me

like the sunrise mist,

Still I feel


"[A novel is] a paper where your thesis is that these people are real, and you have to prove it."

— Maggie Stiefvater (via beingascripturient)
"I don’t like to talk about what hurts"

(via ditzylizzie)

I like to write it down until I burst,

and words come bleeding out of me

with no way to stop them

(via writtenagainsttherules)

Sits down to write a short story, writes a poem instead