Tag: spilled ink

when your mother tells you you’re beautiful
smile and say thank you. 
do not tell her that you don’t really care how beautiful you look because:  1) you know your worth, and 2) your confidence doesn’t come from how attractive others find you. 

when your mother tells you what to wear
give in and let her dress you like a doll. 
do not fight for your right to dress how you please; deny yourself the ability to represent your gender identity the way you feel comfortable. wear the goddamn dress to church.  

when your mother tells you you’ve gained weight
laugh and crack a joke. 
do not tell her how rude and unnecessary her comment is, or that you wish she’d stop placing so much value on your looks, because it’s taken you a long time, but you’ve finally learned your weight does not define you or your beauty. 

when your mother says you ‘don’t need’ to be eating the coconut milk ice cream out of the carton,
tell her she’s right and put it back in the freezer.
do not take another bite and tell her to mind her own business because you can eat what you damned well please.

do not remind her that you no longer share her body. 

do not remind her that her opinion doesn’t matter anymore. 

do not remind her you are not her mirror.

how to never get in an argument with your mother // a.s.m

suddenly you’re
speaking too fast and
i can’t quite remember
what we’re talking about.
have your eyes
always been this shade
of blue? and have you
always had that
small little scar on the corner of
your lips? you touch my
shoulder and look at me with
concerned eyes. shit,
did you notice i
was hypnotized? 
‘are you okay?’
to be honest, i’m not
quite sure i am: it seems
you’ve recently learned
how to shock me.

the moment you realize you’re falling for them // a.s.m

a three thousand square foot
barbie dream mansion in
greenwich, connecticut.
a family of four and a dog
you didn’t want but have
grown to love.
a box of a
nuclear family sold
on shelves everywhere.

but this wasn’t supposed to be
you. you were supposed to be
on the Saturn V. you were supposed to
get out of this place. this world
was never big enough for you,
and yet somehow it has boxed you in– 
as square as the
crusts you cut
off their sandwiches before they run
to the morning bus– a line
as straight as the knife
you cut it with, a knife too dull
to cut through to the parts of yourself that
you try not to think about
when you close your eyes
next to him every night.

there are still some nights where
you fall asleep on the couch
with the t.v. on and the remote
on your belly, and you let go
and accidentally dream of the moon.

sometimes she dreams of the moon // a.s.m

they told me i couldn’t 
hallucinate without
the LSD, 
that i don’t really hear the
wind whisper to me.
but this isn’t
a bad trip. i really do
have nightmares about
my own goddamn mother. and
sometimes i swear the sky isn’t blue
so much as it is the absence
of red. and sometimes
all the speaking i do is just
in my head and
the cars driving by sound like
my best friend committing
suicide after
eighth grade graduation.
this isn’t a bad trip.
i’m telling you, the ghosts
still speak even after
you’ve lost the ability to hear
them. 
i am stuck
in this dimension that
you only visit to vacation,
and let me tell you,
you’re never here
when it rains.

this isn’t a bad trip // a.s.m

first,
they are soft: a feather
grazing the inside of my
wrist. then they dance
with mine, two bodies pressed
closely together,
swaying in synchronization.
then,
they are a blanket: light
but warm, hugging
me close, keeping me safe,
blowing air into my
lungs, singing quietly
of an adoration i can
feel. a nibble
of a desire to taste
my entire being.
i savor
the way your hunger feels
on my tongue.

when you kiss me // a.s.m

it’s so cold out here,
my bones are vibrating.
my thumb seems to have forgotten 
how to flick a lighter, 
but i don’t feel the icy tongue
of the wind on my skin. 
i am half-cooked: well done
on the outside, but raw
in the core. perhaps
all i need is a cigarette
to light me. but i know fires
never last on the coldest nights;
even the brightest flames
eventually die.
i can’t hold this
damn bogie still enough
for it to
kiss the flame; the moons
of my fingers are turning purple
and the rawness is
creeping to the surface.

i am still raw in the center // a.s.m

i think perhaps
small bits of my
heart are eroding
off and being
carried through my blood
stream to my brain because
i’ve been having trouble
separating the two
lately. i’m worried
pieces
of my heart have
taken root in the striatum
(an invasive species on once fertile soils):
i fear i may do
something stupid.

the fusing of heart and mind // a.s.m

MY FIRST LOVE: the earliest flame to catch the wick of my heart. She burned bright and long, keeping me warm through Winter. In Spring,  the branches began to fall, and her fire consumed so brightly it burned. 

MY SECOND LOVE: a brilliant firework. When I fell, he reached out to catch me, but I knocked him to the ground with the weight of my heart. Never close enough to hold, he was gone just as quickly as he came.

MY THIRD LOVE: you set a fire in me I cannot extinguish, you travel through my veins. The first to heat my whole body: the only one I have allowed to spread this far. I am letting down my firewalls, risking third-degree burns, but there is something thrilling about seeing torches in your eyes.

love can set your heart on fire, but it can also burn // a.s.m

honestly,
it doesn’t matter
what time it is because
i’ll be thinking of you
anyway. 
at some point
i stopped feeling, so
i lit myself on fire to get high
enough away from the ground
you’ve walked on.
i see your footprints
on the streets from way up here
as the city shrinks to ants.
i can still pick the top of your head
out from the crowd
from the clouds, 
until i am on the moon:
i can’t see anywhere
your heart and mine were together.

(for)getting high // a.s.m