Keito-Ruiizu

The light from the backyard neighbor is on, a fish tank light with no soft water. It draws a hard line up the side of your face and you wince like it’s painful. Being seen is painful, eyes on your mouth when you talk, shoulders when you walk… You sit up in the bed, pulling your knees to your chest and squeezing, your fingers making dents in the side of your calves. It is starting to feel like they were always there. It’s May and warm and you’re not wearing pants but you want to be but the light is watching and so you sit and feel naked (unseemly, inappropriate) in your shirt and your underwear and your bruises. Pa

Your words tore into my abdomen like vultures feeding on the raw emotion their filthy wings stirred up from the dust. My ribs cracked from the blow. But, I think sometimes of how these were the ribs that should have chased you away from me, quietly wondering how you managed to slither past this cage of bone and flesh to engrave your fingerprints into my marrow. You were sweat & spice & scars- Your eyes, a thunderstorm of black and blue sex jarring and devouring my insides, shaped a faithless religion through the cracks & broken shards of my hollowed out womb. (I want my insides back.)

I am a walking, talking universe of dead poets who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh with ghostly, typewriter fingers. I live and breathe their worldly disasters like a nicotine addiction I've never had. Drowning in their scribbles I kiss their shoreline romances, envy their Annabel Lee's, & carry their hearts in my heart. I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings: a half drunk, hungover limerick waiting to happen. I am jealousy: nothing more than weak words, & a tongue-tied cliche- but death becomes me.

this is hard for the world around us to grasp: these wildfires raging in our retinas & the sins we wear like demonic similes on our tongues- they are not enough. & i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry. but, tell me, what is a young poet(ess) to do with veins made of kite strings?

i was stitched lips and a flightless raven heart- all sex and a contorting spine; his own lips engraving 'kiss me's' on empty stars. & between you and me: i feared his teeth, & tongue, & honest organs- with skin that begged, 'please, don't touch me.' don't touch me. don't fucking touch me. i am not soft. there is a war raging in my lungs, screaming through the uncharted galaxies of my wanderlust heartstrings. i am not soft. i am lust, & war, & envy— i am sin,                   crooked, misshapen, & the kind of prosetry yet to be proofrea

You taste like decaying leaves and October's bad habits- when it’s halfway through February that still haunts these bones. I have allowed you to claw your love into my arms and chant into my uninterested ears for much too long. I wish I was one of those girls who could say wild flowers grow up through my nooks and my crannies just to tear through my skin, screaming. I’m just that dead eyed deer on the side of the road dreaming of shoving a pen down my throat and writing these verses inside out. I am no scribe, prophet, or spell caster. I know it. My skin knows it. My pen knows it too. Years and years from now my mind will d

Maybe I’m keeping a diary 11 W [(20x10) + (3x5)] Wednesday is yellow (so is eleven) (but February is blue and purple) I have learned that the snow tastes different in each place on campus and people look at me as though I am broken the snow melts and drips and my hands are cold, snowflakes die in haphazard tragedy my thoughts leak out my eyes and when I cry at night my legs get caught in yours as I try to run from your breathing but some days I’m tired enough to realize that your existence is a lullaby 12 Thursday 2015 February It’s Advising Day but no one advises me on anything my backpack weighs too much and I sit in

They say I’m careless. I leave one of my boots unlaced when I get dressed this morning. The laces get coated in snow and thaw and freeze, stiff-spine and brittle. I can feel it catch on the uneven ground, on the chunks of ice, on the way you stare to tell me that you hate me. I want you to see it, the way I drag through the snow. I am here I am here I am here i am here iamhere i am ~~~ I can smell your thoughts from here, spoilt milk and apple cores and rotten water in corpse-ridden vases. I want to tell you look at what you’re doing to yourself but you wouldn’t care if I made you. There’s a Dining Commons