[x]

paper cranes and picket fencesi am folding you one thousand paper cranes because it is all we have left.

legend says that if i fold one thousand paper cranes, i will get a wish. i could wish for a pair of iridescent wings or an ocean in a teacup or just to finally be happy again, but i don't want any of that--with every crane i fold i am imagining you. one crane for the circles under your eyes, one crane for your jutting ribs, one crane for every seizure.

i love you and you're dying and i will run out of paper trying to fold your broken pieces into birds.

-

you drew me a picture of us in the future.
our houses were next door to each other and a white picket fence sep

interstate 81.there's a metal star that is wasting away on a hill overlooking interstate 81. it blends in with the surrounding area; you can't really even see it unless you know it's there.
and no one does.
i like to think that it is a signboard from god, and i make tiny little prayers on it. my religion is in curling wires and burned out light bulbs, and my lord is the same colour as the sky and the treetops. honestly, i believe that rusting metal has as much a chance as anything for inspiring faith.

there's a deer lying broken on the side of the road. it's sprawled in a shallow ditch with its four legs splayed awkwardly, hooves plowing tiny furrows in

being in love.it's like when you were five, when your pet rabbit died
and you learned that nothing good lasts.

it's like the time you dropped him off at his house to watch tv
before you drove yourself to the emergency room, sobbing.

it's like the first time you saw your kindergarten teacher cry.

it's like ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes. ashes.

it's like when he went too far, and he said, "is this okay?"
and you said, "no," but it didn't matter.

it's like when he said, "but i want you."

it's like the number seven, or rubies.

it's like when you almost drowned in the pool in north carolina
and when you looked up through the

serbian mermaid.in five years i want to move to georgia
or serbia or atlantis and start a family,
name my children after odd numbers
and teach them russian lullabies and
the art of manipulating those you love.

in five years i want to marry you, but
i don't know if you like odd numbers,
or even if you like me all that much.
maybe you'd like me if i tell you
that i'm a mermaid, but i'm not
and you can always tell when i am lying.

in five years i want to be seventeen,
but wishes don't work like that.
i tried.

in five years i want to be on a plane
and i want the plane to crash
into the ocean and i want everyone
to be okay except me, but if i w

a poem for terrible people.i want to write a poem about primroses
and how i am not a terrible person.

-

i am disordered but not disorderly. i am broken up.
i think nice thoughts like "streetlight" and "linens,"
and is there an instruction guide on happiness?
i could write one for you.

step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.
step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers.
step three, turn into a dandelion. blow away.

my heart tries to escape from my throat. okay,
i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone,
ever, not even imaginary best friends. or real ones.
or myself. freud says i am an iceberg, but i don't
know if he means i am full of repressed though

When you're goneI'm sitting here
alone
missing you
at 3:00 AM
because you said goodnight
but I know you can't be sleeping

I'm standing here
in my room
alone
just feeling
the cold of my feet
on the floor
and watching
the orange sky
pondering
if it's aware
of its beauty

I'm walking out
down the stairs
into the grass
thinking that I
have no idea
where I'm going

I'm running
down

the
street

and I fall
but I don't get up

because it's better here

I'm lying here
half asleep
bleeding
but I won't be alone
much longer
because I know
that they will come

I'm dead now
and for once I feel
that something finally
appreciates
my body

kitestrings.you confessed that when you were little you would pull apart monarch butterflies because they were much too beautiful--
so beautiful that they made you feel uneasy.

(you always did call me the most beautiful thing you'd ever known.)

it's almost december now, and the only reason i wish you were here is so you could make snow angels and i could rip off their wings.

---

you wanted a kite for your birthday, so i got you one that was shaped like a bat and we took it to the beach, watched it crash into the surf over and over until it was bent and broken. i rescued it from the tide and surfaced dripping saltwater -- you told me i looked like t

amor de lejos.you used to blow into my ear while i was
trying to fall asleep.

i'd laugh and pull off both of our shirts, kiss
you chest and ears and eyelids until neither
of us could breathe. afterwards you'd sleepily
call me your little snuggle puppy, curve your
body around mine, and just when you'd close
your eyes i'd laugh and blow into your ear.

we never used to have any change because
we'd go downtown and feed the parking meters
by hand, like they were curious metal monsters.
you could never resist helplessness, which is
probably why you love me.

i used to make up songs about your socks.
i used to rub your back in front of your pare

sticks and stones.broken people like to write poems about how they are broken.
they like to turn people into words because no one's heart
has ever been punctured by parentheses, but by god it's not
for lack of trying. in a poem, broken people can have hangnails
and they never have to brush their hair because the tangles
symbolize the time they lost their virginity and there are no mirrors
unless they write about one and force themselves to look into it.

-

broken people also like to use cliche metaphors
but that is okay because when you are broken
sometimes cliche metaphors are all you have left.

"i am a rose and you think i'm beautiful so you

march 24th, 2008.there is a chinese proverb that says your teeth will fall out if you tell lies.

i used to always dream my teeth would crumble from my mouth and lay glittering on the street like coins. i used to dream that the slightest touch jarred them loose, knocked them from my jaw leaving only swells of broken tissue behind. i used to dream of rivulets of blood streaming from the corners of my mouth, of thirty two pieces of myself lying naked on the ground, thirty two tooth fairies that would never come. i used to dream of screaming.

"you know," said my psychology TA, "to dream of losing one's teeth is very common. it typically means that you're concer

stop ruining autumn.listen:

fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.

listen:

two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves, who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.

and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."

listen:

on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged

Fourth of September.1.

I am writing a poem about my birthday and candles and alcohol and dead people.
And how I have a really good imagination and every time I walk by that stop sign I see the car slamming into her and spreading her across the asphalt and every time the lights flicker I imagine his brain swelling against the confines of his skull and every time I walk in the front door I am reminded that my baby brother is dead.

And balloons.
I am writing a poem about balloons and dead people.

2.

It is the fourth of September and I am full of longing. I want bare knees and raw elbows, untied shoes, green grass that bites into the tender palms of my hands.

SorryI hate it that the
closer I get to you the
more I hurt inside

the soccer game.the thing is, i need
the deer to mean something.

-

i go to the soccer game and smile
and nod while something furious
inside of me is screaming.
a deer appears while the sun
is setting and it's like a scene
from a movie: green grass and gold rays
that spread out, tingeing our feet
with one last bit of wednesday.
everyone watches the deer and makes
noises of appreciation and i look
around and i think to myself
"okay, this is it, i am happy."

-

the deer is watching me and i try
to decide if it's a metaphor.
i want the deer to be death, see,
to represent fucking or blacking
out or apathy or loneliness.

someone does something

dahlia girl.i used to let you backhand me across
the face because crying turned you on.

your palm stung and burned my cheeks
bright red, but it was strangely beautiful.
you called me your little dahlia, your little
candleflame, and kissed my jaw where
your fingers left treadmarks.

you said:
"love means making sacrifices."

i said nothing, just wiped away a few
premature tears and traced the fireworks
blooming on my face.

you used to fall asleep in the grass with
me, and we'd wake up with petals stuck
in our eyebrows and grass stains on our
lips. our lazy kisses tasted like rain.

i say:
"love means throwing handfuls of grass at
each ot

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heart crossed.

"who's that kid?" i ask, pointing at the boy whose hair cannot decide if it is red or gold. he holds a basketball in his small hands, bouncing it, once, twice, before putting it through the hoop in a perfect arc.

"james," the counselor responds, and leans closer. "he's a foster kid, you know."

i don't know.

the boy turns at that moment and catches me watching him. unthinkingly i form my thumbs and index fingers into a heart and flash it at him. he nods to his teammates and leaves the court, climbing the bleachers to where i sit.

"did you see my shot?" he asks.

"yes." pause. "i'm kelsey."

"i know," he says, and runs back to his game.

at

march 24th, 2008.there is a chinese proverb that says your teeth will fall out if you tell lies.

i used to always dream my teeth would crumble from my mouth and lay glittering on the street like coins. i used to dream that the slightest touch jarred them loose, knocked them from my jaw leaving only swells of broken tissue behind. i used to dream of rivulets of blood streaming from the corners of my mouth, of thirty two pieces of myself lying naked on the ground, thirty two tooth fairies that would never come. i used to dream of screaming.

"you know," said my psychology TA, "to dream of losing one's teeth is very common. it typically means that you're concer

the soccer game.the thing is, i need
the deer to mean something.

-

i go to the soccer game and smile
and nod while something furious
inside of me is screaming.
a deer appears while the sun
is setting and it's like a scene
from a movie: green grass and gold rays
that spread out, tingeing our feet
with one last bit of wednesday.
everyone watches the deer and makes
noises of appreciation and i look
around and i think to myself
"okay, this is it, i am happy."

-

the deer is watching me and i try
to decide if it's a metaphor.
i want the deer to be death, see,
to represent fucking or blacking
out or apathy or loneliness.

someone does something

waiting.he has been there for so long that the girl sometimes wonders if he is part of the beach, if the seaweed and shells fuse themselves to his ankles at night and grow over his browned legs like ivy. he is always still, so still, eyes focused on something distant in the waves that the girl can't quite see, though she tries. the man has a face like a creased paper bag and she finds herself wishing that she could see inside his head.

she watches him all day from the corner of her eye but no one ever joins him in his vigil. he is alone in casting shadows that grow longer and longer as the sun sets. the girl wonders what it is like to be so alone an

encephalitis.she asks, "is it weird to have one day where you really intensely, for no good reason, think of a dead person?"

-

the intercom was the one to announce that his body had finally given up. i don't remember what i was wearing that day, or how my hair looked, or what noises fell out of my mouth. death has dulled the sharp edges within me. this is what i do know: some people burst into tears and some people sat frozen and pale and some people simply got up and left the room.

"are you okay?" someone asked me, and i found that i was lying on the floor, though i couldn't understand how i'd gotten there. the overhead lights were buzzing and humming

throwing rocks.so i want to grow up and get a job and make happy, make money, make forget. i can't though, i'm too concerned with windchimes. i mean, fuck windchimes, right? i lie awake at night and listen to rigs on the rumble strip and the windchimes, (mostly the trucks), but damn, the tinkling is enough to keep me awake all night. but sometimes not, and then i dream i drown or maybe i marry a serial killer who props up corpses in rocking chairs or sometimes i dream about my ex-boyfriend's little sister because why not. then i wake up and it's taxes and credit cards and grades and people dying and shit.

and windchimes.

i don't know what is wrong with me

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trilobite.

by ~estallidos, Jan 16, 2010, 11:29:18 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

look:
don't ask me to prove to you that evolution is real,
because i lost the notebook with the proof written
out in pen. i could try to sum it up for you anyway,
about how i didn't used to love you and then one day
i did and how whales used to have legs.

also i was once a flower or a seven year old
and my hands didn't know how to hold yours
or how to draw sunsets and make sandcastles.

evolution was you one year ago saying i was perfect,
that i should never change myself for anyone.
now you say that you are trying to fix me,
which means that perfect things could always
be trying harder. and that's evolution.

i'm tired of my hair that keeps growing longer
and my veins that keep shifting beneath the surface
of my skin, writing love letters to you in cursive.

look:
they say my writing never evolves,
so i write a poem for you about love
and learning to walk on two legs
and title it "trilobite."

look:
they say with my heavy bones my body will never
get off the ground, but that doesn't mean i close
my eyes when the sky is so beautiful it hurts.

my hands might someday turn into wings.

trilobite.by ~estallidos

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

paleozoic era.

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