1. It took me five hours to get out of bed today because when I’m half-asleep it hurts less.
2. I still haven’t eaten a full meal. Whenever I try to put food down my throat I feel like I’m going to vomit it back up. But I’d rather starve than taste my stomach acid instead of the lingering possibility of your lips.
3. When I first jolted awake from my empty dreams, I was confused by the numbness in my heart. Then I remembered, and I started bleeding again. The gunshot wounds opened back up.
4. I keep glancing at my phone hoping I’ll see a text from you but you’re feeling alive at that concert for the second night this weekend and I’m feeling like I’d rather be dead than live without you.
5. This time I should have known better than to let you pull the trigger.
6. You need to learn how to apologize without making me feel like I’m the one who should be saying sorry.
Six texts I’d send him if I hadn’t blocked his number
September 28, 2014

This blog was formerly coeur-ephemere!

I decided to change the name of my main blog to sansparadis and use its prior URL, audacieusement, on my poetry tumblr (this blog, haha). Sorry for any confusion, and all the links on the contents pages will be fixed slowly but surely!

9-1-1

September 25, 2014

I live a half-mile away from the hospital and sometimes in the middle of the night I can hear emergency sirens bringing people to their deathbeds. I lay dead-still in my bed, trying not to think about those people. I try not to imagine their stories. I try to imagine that the ambulances are empty, that they are ghosts in the night.

I try not to think about someone’s only daughter being brought in on a stretcher. I try not to imagine she was assaulted by three of her senior classmates as she left her best friend’s homecoming afterparty, raped and beaten in the darkness of an otherwise quiet neighborhood alleyway. I try not to feel her panic as she was left alone for her drunken friends to find, bruised, violated, scarred.

I try not to think about someone’s father getting into a car crash on the highway. I try not to recall perhaps hearing through my music the collision only two blocks away from my house. I try not to smell the rising smoke from when his car burst into flames. I try not to envision the broken bones from the impact and the acid burns from the airbags that were supposed to save his life.

I try not to think about someone’s older sister going into labor a month and a half too soon after being told the baby wouldn’t make it to full-term, that there might be a stillbirth, that everything could go so wrong when it should be going right. I try not to see the tears streaming down her face, her carefully-applied mascara and winged eyeliner smearing into muddy puddles of hopelessness.

I try not to think about someone’s boyfriend taking a few too many sleeping pills at 5:00 in the afternoon. I try not to envision his eyes drifting shut. I try not to see his arms go limp. I try not to hear the back door opening a half-hour later, his mom calling his name and asking how his day went, only to not receive an answer. I try not to feel her hands shaking when she opens his bedroom door. I try not to feel her rouged cheeks wet with hot tears.

I try not to think about someone’s grandmother falling down the stairs with no one else home. I try not to hear her cries of pain, I try not to hear the neighbors calling the phone to see if everything’s alright, I try not to hear the door being busted open when no one answers the doorbell. I try not to hear the ambulance taking her away.

I try not to think about someone’s twelve-year-old brother who was dared by his friends to shoot his dad’s gun at the wall. I try not to feel the kick of the pistol when he pulls the trigger a split second too soon. I try not to feel the bullet shot into his right leg instead. I try not to notice the king-size Hershey’s bar that his friends were going to give him as his reward, laying forgotten on the floor as they fumble to call the phone number drilled into their minds by their teachers.

9-1-1, I have an emergency. I can’t get their stories out of my head. I can’t stop the emergency sirens from singing these people to their deathbeds. I can’t do anything but lay awake dead-still in my bed with tears drying on my face while the faceless, nameless people are sung to sleep by the sirens that haunt me at night. What do I do when I can’t do a thing

What do I do

Matchbox Girl
September 23, 2014

Do not call me pretty.
You can call me a box of matches just waiting to be struck aflame
Because God knows, I can burn your paper-heart-house down with a single spark.
I can set your insides ablaze better than the vodka I’ll never drink ever could.
I can start a wildfire in the forest that resides among your bones.
Your touch may be warmth but my hands along the contours of your back
Might brand my name onto the surface of your soul for eternity.
I could incinerate your fears with my flames,
Reduce to smoke and ash all the doubts you ever had.
Pretty is a tea candle that can be blown out at night,
And I am a raging inferno that cannot be put out quite as easily.
So go ahead, call me a box of matches,
But do not call me pretty.

Matchbox Girl

September 23, 2014

Do not call me pretty.
You can call me a box of matches just waiting to be struck aflame
Because God knows, I can burn your paper-heart-house down with a single spark.
I can set your insides ablaze better than the vodka I’ll never drink ever could.
I can start a wildfire in the forest that resides among your bones.
Your touch may be warmth but my hands along the contours of your back
Might brand my name onto the surface of your soul for eternity.
I could incinerate your fears with my flames,
Reduce to smoke and ash all the doubts you ever had.
Pretty is a tea candle that can be blown out at night,
And I am a raging inferno that cannot be put out quite as easily.
So go ahead, call me a box of matches,
But do not call me pretty.

I’m not afraid of dying; I’m afraid of being alone.
My fears will kill me in the night
September 23, 2014
I almost promised you I would love you until the universe collapsed in on itself or until the day my heart stopped beating, whichever happened first. But instead I promised I would be okay.
I don’t make promises I can’t keep
September 23, 2014

You left me with an email that contained the words
Goodbye, Red along with other phrases that
Carried less importance than your I love yous did and a song that took
Three days for me to listen to because first I had to
Dry my tears and get out of bed

You left me with nothing but my bleeding heart remaining in my
Shaking hands outstretched to give it to you for you to keep forever and
Ever but I never expected for you to give it back to me in
Quite the way you did

You left me almost without a word and you did it because you
Didn’t want to hurt me I know you did it in the name of
Protecting a girl named Red from heartbreak but you
Only perpetuated the pain with your
Silences and absences and conversations that trailed
Off in their middles to premature ends

You left me and yet I stayed because I don’t know how to walk
Away when the love has fled from my lover’s heart I
Stayed because I have a spark of hope in my eyes that comes from the
Last light of a dying star I stayed because I
Knew that when you say you
Can’t love me
Somewhere you still do because you don’t just
Run out of room in your heart to
Care about a girl you loved like fire

You left me behind so the distance couldn’t hurt you me us any
More than it already had you left because you couldn’t love me if
It was causing so much pain you left me because you couldn’t
Be with a girl who was twelve thousand miles away from your
Heartbeat and I never knew what we were
Before but I know that we are nonexistent
Now.

You left me and I understand why
September 22, 2014
I still use the little fork to eat dinner because the big fork feels awkwardly large in my hand. That’s the problem with having small hands—everything feels larger-than-life when I’m holding it. Your hands were so much bigger than mine, but maybe they only felt that way because mine are so small. The memory of holding your hand feels like a tall-tale now, larger-than-life, the truth distorted into a myth too large for my hands to grasp. I need you here, but my hands are too small to reach for yours now, and you are too far away.
Small hands and tall tales
September 19, 2014

elegant destruction

september 18, 2014

put your smile on, cover up the truth
that there’s dynamite waiting to go off underneath your skin
we’re all cabinets of untold secrets
but for some of us,
the secrets hidden within are atomic bombs on the brink of explosion

you’re the burning end of a shortening rope
but you still smile like the fuse
hasn’t yet been lit
you’re a ticking time-bomb
who doesn’t know how many seconds will slip away before
she collapses into rubble

who struck the match and burned you so badly
that you began to think that even nuclear fallout
would be better than this?
but i suppose when you’re in flames
at least you’re feeling something

you’re so close to detonation
fractions of an inch away from being the grey ash
that fell from hiroshima’s skies

but when the atom bomb behind your smiling eyes goes off at last
you will emit so much light that even the flowers
will grow towards you
in their demise.

FEARWAKES