i know

i write things and the best part is that i used to be a good person! http://hotpain.tumblr.com

[demon711]

sitting on the cold bathroom tile

in the dark.

48 hours of wide eyed horror as

one image appears after another.

the intrusions form a snuff film

that feels like it’s playing

in my very Brain Stem.

In 5 hours I will

once again

rise with the sun

wretch up bile for an hour

feel sorry for myself

down 65 milligrams of methadone,

then half a xanax,

then 3 prozac,

then 2 lithium,

and an extra strength tylenol.

and i will greet the day

as if i wasn’t just given confirmation

of what we all already knew;

but somehow it’s worse.

they thought of us as nothing,

but pretty prey for so long.

i wait patiently

to remind,

that we were wolves;

before we were house pets.

[demon711]

a pearl.

a pebble.

a grain of sand.

i have made myself as small as i can for him.

there is so much room in this body now.

i could fit all the women

i’ve ever been

in here

all at once.

[demon711]

yearning to be thinner has become glib.

its not that i don’t feel it deeply anymore,

i’m just no longer blind to starving myself.

i never see the mold on the pomegranate

before i take a bite.

i do not scoop the seeds out

with a quaint little spoon,

before i eat them anymore.

i eat it whole in my fists;

like a feral animal,

sitting on my kitchen counter.

ready to hiss at anyone who dares witness

this consumption; this bloody mess-

nevermind the pomegranate.

i bite into its tough but rotting flesh

& it reminds me of sweet styrofoam.

i think of the inner architecture of the fruit.

it is a crimson cathedral of

ivory pillared seed cradles

rotting in my palms.

i decide from now on,

so spitefully-

the person dining across from me

may think i require assistance swallowing.

but i will always maintain perfect posture.

[demon711]

all my talismans

and the dirt under my nails

wont make you eat again

it wont make me real again

our bloods a different color here.

in the awake part of falling asleep;

fugue fucking.

i weep and it means everything.

cross my lace up heart.

i meant it,

nothing as beautiful as when i saw you

nothing more wretched than watching you leave.

but i left and i leave and

i keep leaving

[demon711]

my mother

uses “i love you” like a choke chain.

tries to train her unruly daughter

to be as still and as quiet

as her brother.

forever in the crib turned casket.

my mother

built a rock wall around her heart,

and asked a child to climb it freehand.

and scorns each time the footing crumbles underneath.

my mother

shows me the scar she has

from the emergency cesarean birth;

from where they physically pulled me from her.

as if a mortal sin had been committed

by the doctors-

as if i was hers by right, forever.

that if we were connected by anything,

it was all this suffering.

and that was enough to make us- both

whole.

[demon711]

“aw” i sigh

to the red faced squalling step father

cornering me in my dreams

“I am not broken…”

and then im awake.

I am

re-writing the byline of

my story and I’ll bring

you with me

all the doors don’t open

I learned that once

I got here

but the sunset,

he always comes back.

just like our shared peace by

mutually assured destruction

though we both hate each other

for the petty reason of

not being able to touch her;

actual innocence.

they are the only two lovers

I’ve never had to fear-

you and me.

fear is a root.

it starts

somewhere small like a nerve

that didn’t develop right then

it digs deep

wraps around

every molecule of brain.

it sends Shock

after Shock until finally You

are laying face down on your hardwoods but it’s OK.

it’s inside your head you’re

actually sitting on the couch.

you are all hard Would

and won’t

and that’s OK;

it will take years.

years.

but one day you will realize

that. it. is. okay.

to not be

remarkable.

All you have to do

is live with her and

there’s no need to

write her a tragedy to live through,

this time.

[demon711]

you never made a sound

as the kitchen sink overflowed.

you did that for me.

you know that-

running water is the only way

i can think anymore.

the only way i can make

the words line up into a truth

that i can pretend is new.

our clothes are wet.

your baseball shirt clings

to your abdomen and it’s like

we’re suddenly standing in the Acropolis.

but you are something more than rock.

marble couldnt cradle a body so sweet.

sometimes im afraid

the tap will run dry, but

i’ll always be safe in

your unconditionality.

and that was the first time i knew:

i wouldn’t go anywhere

your light didn’t touch too.

[demon711]

i stare at the full moon

still.

last night was the blood moon

and i’m bleeding;

as promised.

i scream at the moon.

i’ve been screaming at her for years.

i want to pluck her from the sky

and scream more, learn answers-

save myself.

why, mother?

why must i be tried by fire

every single time?

we know i will survive it.

i always survive.

i’m a cockroach of

a woman.

am i still not pure enough yet?

do i not deserve a quiet, happy life?

am i doing this to myself?

i get no answers.

she stares back at me-

beaming.

suffering is duty.

duty above all else.

i am exhausted

but love; i am alive

i am

i am

i am

i promise us both,

i am.

[demon711]

peter pan

grew into a man

though his head

will never get past 18

and it’ll never wake

from stagelit dreams.

you can have beautiful babies

with a girl that reminds you of wendy

but even she’ll leave to be a mum

eventually.

so what does a 30 year old father

do with a mountain of cocaine

when he only has to be a father

every other weekend?

i was never a siren-

i was your little sister’s

best friend.

then i grew into a woman

something

so much scarier to you

in the end.

/////

my sins of being careless

with myself

and with others,

fade with time.

just like scars on skin.

years of tides tossing me

into your jagged rock embrace.

you were always too slippery

to grip onto.

but you were busy

trying to make

paper cranes out of

wallpaper sheets of women.

you made me a villain at 15.

because my body gave you ideas.

you were ashamed of it.

worse-

you blamed me for it.

fat girls can’t be girlfriends.

just the ones that got away.

and god,

am i glad

i got away.

im sorry your will

is so much

weaker than your ego.

no amount of acid you drop

can pick up the other things

you drop too.

[demon711]

im exhausted

[newloverofbeauty]

Installation of William Adolphe Bouguereau's   “Dante und Virgil “ (1825)

[demon711]

a used condom

a worn teddy bear

beneath,

sits me-

crying as hard as i ever could.

[hotpain]

being loved by an alchemist

is holy fire.

it is a burning

bush.

it does not burn when you touch it

but you see the flames licking

at your skin just the same.

[demon711]

he traces the lines on my legs-

he doesnt ask questions.

people that have had

no choice but to

rebuild themselves

have a magnificent

way of finding one another.

of having their hands fit together

like broken pottery pieces.

but even i cry too much

for the sweetest man in the world.

my grief has become boring.

that’s real tragedy.

[demon711]

ash and plastic gallons of water.

power outages every other Tuesday nite.

the color of the sweat-stained asphalt outside the 7/11 around the block from your oxy-dealer’s mom’s house.

a gallon of cookies n cream ice cream.

a boxtruck of someone else’s feelings has jack-knifed itself inside of ur esophagus suddenly.

throwing it up would feel so good.

they say 90% of accidents happen within a mile of home.

i wonder what its like to be so sure of your destination; your key fitting into the turning lock- then not existing anymore. a house becomes a home; a home becomes a shrine; a shrine becomes a televised special on grief.

consumption.

grief is a lot like cold sores.

mouths hurt;

pus n scabs, all that.

sometimes they heal.

still, nobody wants to kiss u.

grief is a lot like bulimia too.

people forgot how to touch u; things that didn’t matter before, do- everything

has feelings and there’s nothing else in u so u gobble em up.

youre so hungry to feel something besides

trapped.

thats called “empathy.”

maybe not.

i push my plate away-

im not hungry anymore.

but god,

im still starving-

for touch.

for the sickly sweet drip

of that gas station candy

that you bought me,

and

for something fucking different.

[demon711]

its eight fifteen in the morning.

i sit alone,

surrounded

by living things.

when i was 21

i was ready to die.

i loved living hard

but i broke

too many windows

when doors slammed

in my face.

my fists started to hurt.

living soft comes easier.

i think of other’s more.

i have a forest in my living room.

i learned that

growing pains happen in all things.

[demon711]

the unbent mind and the twisted form

when they started to ask

i told them all that-

“oh my boy was a surgeon.

his hands designed so perfectly to

slit open bodies and sew them back up.”

but the truth is

people are like mirrors-

each time they’re pulled apart,

it gets that much harder

to remember where all the pieces go.