The Crooked Chronicles

life is a crook


Your breath is fire on my skin.
You speak to me from afar
Lest I realize your wickedness.
I feel your warmth on some nights
When you can’t help but inch
Towards me, your mouth watering
At the thought of my flesh.
Don’t come too close; I want to keep
The image of your perfection.

I have fallen in love with your lies.


When you sleep on nails,
Rusted from the rain
That trickled through the
Holed roof of your shed
(It’s your own fault, Darling;
You said you would fix it.),
You learn to appreciate
The cold, dirty pavement.

When you open your mouth
And only blood sputters out,
Painful murmurings that
You try so hard to hide,
You learn to appreciate
The close-lipped silence.

When your heart is broken
And you are left to mend it
With nothing more than an
Uninterested friend and
A bottle of poison,
You learn to appreciate
The winds that blow
Beyond the edges of cliffs.

And one day your appreciation
Might culminate in a realization,
And your suffering
Will not have been
Entirely in vain.


Swords and spears
Wouldn’t hurt this much;
I’m a strong boy,
That’s what my mother said.

I have nightmares
About you, silly dreams
Where you leave
And it kills me.

I’m a strong boy,
But stronger men
Have fallen with wounds
In their chests.

Swords and spears
Wouldn’t hurt this much,
And at least that pain
Would kill me.

The Garden

His flaws show at the first sign of emotion; he prunes the garden too often, watches over it for too long a time. It grows slowly, unwillingly, afraid to disappoint him, or it unfolds angrily, provoking him, calling him to try and stop its show of independence as if his meticulousness was threatening to its livelihood.
The pain the garden cultivates within him is a hunger. His want is only for the garden to grow. He yearns for the roses to open up their petals, for the sunflowers to turn towards him instead of the sun; the perfection he craves comes only in pairs, and so he can never know happiness.
He sits in the garden, leaving it to grow on its own for a short while. He thanks the garden for all that he harvests, but his affection is too eager, too expectant; he is ill-received.
Night comes and he is renewed in his efforts, pushed forth by the silent beauty of the stars, but within the garden this can never exist; the chained dogs howl at the gate.
He will never know happiness.

You care for things too much
When they are worth so little;
You would kill for a scrap of food
Even if you weren’t hungry.


Heart refurbished,
Soul bought on sale;
Mind found in the corner
Of a dirty thrift shop
On a dirty street
In a dirty city.

Here I am,
A doctor’s monster,
Dressed in pale
And tattered skin,
Hoping you
Could love me.

But I will understand
If you walk away;
There is only
So much I could do
To hide myself.


Would you lie for me?
Words fall from my mouth,
the sounds tied together
with their intricacies, stories
I’ve never heard before
looped through each other
by the tip of my tongue.

Would you kill for me?
There’s blood on my hands,
horrible thoughts hanging
like incandescent lights
in the back of my mind;
soon they will flicker,
and then they will die.

Would you die for me?
There are holes in my chest,
open wounds in my flesh
that had waited for the chance
to kiss your skin. I will always
be the first to go.

Would you smile for me?
My lips fall into a frown
as I think back on all
that I have done for you,
on the poison that you fed me
to keep me alive,
weak enough to listen
but strong enough to obey.

I cannot smile for you.

Snapchat confessions


I punch walls
until I feel something
other than your thorns.

Soon my house will be dust
and my bones will be bare.

I can’t focus on my homework…

I can’t focus on my homework…


When you leave
and I look to find
the last of my veins
have run dry
and that there
is nothing left
for me to bleed,

I will realize
what my silence
had cost me.


We are ceramic jars,
chipped at the edges.
There’s dry blood along
our rims from when someone
tried to touch us
without getting cut.
In the end we proved to be
too broken for our past lovers.

We have hidden away from
decrepitness and dispassion,
and in our isolation
we spill into each other
until we’ve filled up
to the broken brim,
each with the secrets and
undulating fervor of the other.

We lie together,
painting our pale surfaces.
Your skin becomes warm
from my constant touch.

We become art
in each others arms.


Would you steal my heart again
If you knew then what you know now?

If you had seen the thorns that would
Pierce your hands, would you still
Have reached for me? I am sorry that

I have nothing to give you
But this empty ball of fiberglass
And debris. Look elsewhere
For your happiness; I have none to give.

The Fall

You’ll know when it’s time; your soul
will grip your heart so tightly
that you’ll think you’ve died.
Your mind will replace misery
with emptiness, emptiness
with passion.

Your name will have no meaning.
Her name will escape from your mouth.

You will smile again, laugh
at your footprints in the cement,
at the hole you had dug
for your own corpse.

You will walk away, finally,
exhausted for all the wrong reasons,
and she will take you in.
She will be the rest
you need.


We are too finite
for prudence;

love me now,
love me wholly,
love me solely.

And tomorrow,
if the sun
chooses to rise,
love me again.

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