Harlow can you go?

Like one of Harlow’s monkeys,

I can survive off this wiry sustenance

No longer.

My tongue is tired of bitter milk.

Life is a poor definition for what

I’m living.

I want to feel my skin on your skin

I want to breathe fresher air


I will curl into myself until

Your warmth unbinds me.


Did you know that nothing ever really touches? I read that in a book once. Something about the atoms constantly shifting so that no matter how hard you try there will always be an invisible distance between two objects. I guess that all I can really think about right now, as I feel the heat from his palm, is the space that separates our hands. 
I feel him tense. His once supple hand is now rigid, as if he sensed my disillusionment. I shift my eyes away from the dying leaves, their gorgeous colors so costly, so I can focus on his features. I observe each pore as his smooth jawline adjusts, clenching now. He turns and sets his watery eyes on me. I pause and remember how I used to lose myself in the depths of blue and in the subtle grey flecks that composed his irises. But that seemed like forever ago. His voice comes out in a wisp, a gentle breeze of articulation that splinters my train of thought.
“Valerie,” slowly and softly, he savors each word like a piece of hard candy pocketed in his cheek, “I need to tell you something.” 
“What’s the matter?” my voice hitched and cracked. I was nervous. I had a vague idea where the conversation was going, where the old clichés would be exchanged between the two of us as if we were strangers: “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Hot tears cascade down the hills and rifts of his face, likely adding a bittersweet relief to the chill in the air. Each word comes out with a new rush of despair. Through this pain he manages a throaty, choked whisper, “I have cancer.” 
A wail resonates through the empty park, a noise that only the deepest of sorrows could procure, and I can’t tell if it’s him or me making this sound, but through it a word sticks to the roof of my mouth, like a popcorn kernel causing a dull ache each time my tongue brushes against the thought of saying it out loud: Terminal. 
Not a moment before I had been contemplating the way this would end and I had assumed it would be with harsh words to affirm the new distance I had been feeling but now the only thing I could fathom was the cluster of cells multiplying throughout his slender body. I realize as I stare into the fleeting face of this dying boy who I didn’t deserve, that I loved him with every rush of blood and with each of my stuttered breaths. He was an autumn leaf, beautiful and dying.
“I love you,” I tremble and softly place my hands on his face, wiping away the tears that leave their salty bite on his skin and I draw him towards me. As our lips meet I know without a doubt, despite what any book says to the contrary, that all the spaces between us have flooded with this moment, with love.

Cemetery Sleeping

My bed is a cemetery, 
Pieces of me nuzzled 
Between the fibers of 
Cheap sheets. 
My heart is a muscle,
Pushing blood to my brain
Where It’ll feed my sad, 
Filthy feelings. 
My brain is a headache, a 
Perpetual loop of unyielding 
Consciousness leaking into 
My bones. 
My sadness is a whisper,
A soft cooing, urging my 
Brain to starve due to an 
Atrophic heart. 
My bed is a cemetery, 
My sheets a makeshift coffin,
Where I ache to fall asleep, never
To wake up.

Blood Alcohol

All I wanted was to draw blood,
To see the plump drops squeeze out
And run down, leaving angry streaks 
Behind them. I wanted to forget the fact
The only way I could feel happy was by 
Making myself hurt, so I drank wine until
My eyes turned hazy, my fingers grew lazy
And I fell in love with you.  

Sad Because

I’m sad because
I can pull apart my veins,
And arrange them in a way
That spells out his name. 
I’m sad because
I don’t get high for fun anymore,
It’s all about getting by now and 
I never thought I’d crave this hurt.
I’m sad because
I’m selfish and mean
Seeking out sweet tragedy.
I just don’t feel the need to breathe. 
I’m sad because 
I’m sad 
I’m sad



So this idea is neither original- because I got it from a post I saw about an artist doing something similar- or smart- because it’s actually really probably physically damaging but:

I want to do a series of poems in which I will take a different drug before writing each one. 

I’m unsure whether I should do the same prompt for each drug, or a different prompt for each drug. 

What I’m asking of my limited number of followers and anyone who sees this on the tag they’re looking through is:

Drug suggestions (I will not be doing meth, pcp or crack, so don’t waste your time).

Prompt opinions and suggestions. 

There will be a month between the harder drugs, in order to let my brain recover. 

Even if I don’t get any suggestions I’ll still do this because it seems highly interesting. 

Forest Fires and ‘Just tired’s

I’m okay.

I’m just tired.

An exhaustion that hollows my

Insides. Digging up marrow and

Lodging itself inside my bones.

The fire has smoldered,

Suffocating the sadness,

And anger until they are

Simply fond memories of

A forest of emotions now

Turned to a valley of sleep.

Their ashes swept away by the

Waves of communicating

Nerve endings. It’s okay to

Burn out, to give up on your

Melting intestines, skin falling

Away from a charred skeleton.

Let me close my eyes,

If only for a while, so I can dream

Of days that never existed.

Of a time when I was composed

Of more words than just

I’m just tired.

I’m okay. 

I crave touch, 
So I allowed pain to 
Brush against my thighs 
In sour-looking slits. 
Letting the blood kiss my 
Skin like weathered lips. 
I crave happiness, 
So I allowed smoke to 
Settle in the crevices of 
All my empty spaces. 
Letting loneliness in
And all it’s similar faces.

I can’t seem to form

The right chain of words

To actually get you to understand

That I don’t want to be here anymore.

When you leave the room

I contemplate forming a noose from

The blue ethernet cord and hanging myself up

In the closet until my skin turns cold and I stop twitching.

The bottle of sleeping (pain) pills on the desk

Has never been used, and I’ve had my share of headaches and sleepless nights.

I’m waiting for the courage to take them all one by one, or all at once

Until I fall asleep on my back so I choke on the vomit as my organs fail.

I didn’t make this eloquent or sweet,

Don’t go and romanticize things you don’t understand.

I’ve never felt so strongly before,

This abandonment of self-preservation that suicide requires. 


The sun wheezes hot breath
Over the earth, much like he does
To you when he can’t sleep. 
Your hatred turns to 
Pleading sighs,
Aching thighs 
And shame.
Inhale this toxic smoke,
Let it bathe your lungs like 
The lullabies you were never sung.
The way your muscles strain 
Eating at your brain, 
What a nasty habit. 
Tears elude you, burrowing into 
Your bruising skin so you’re 
Perpetually composed of sadness. 
Too fucked up to hate his skin,
You’re numb to the taste of sin
And now we lose control 
(As if we ever even found it)