I have calculated the total number of hours
we spend sleeping beside each other in a week
and I wanted to tell you it could be considered
a full-time job. We could be eligible for healthcare
benefits, could probably even pay for a mortgage
by now. I remind myself of this, in daylight, when
I miss you and cannot reach across the bed
for the comforting filling and refilling
of your chest. Such a strange affair
we are having on each other; these hours
that I have not lost but do not remember.
This cannot be the best of love: to drool
on someone’s collarbone or inhale an elbow to
the jaw or be woken by the most ungraceful sounds
of the body. But what is it if not the softening
of grips? A letting go of. Your heart
finally slowly that stubborn, lonely march.
— Sierra DeMulder, “These Hours I Have Not Lost But Do Not Remember” (via fleurishes)
She is the kind of shaken that makes me feel perfect.
Pale and empty like the frames of barns about to be torn down.
The girl is not old; she bleeds green sapling branches,
beautifully disheveled and harmfully ignorant to how cold the winter can be.
She drinks bottles of wine like excuses, cries at stupid movies.
Good at getting what she wants, better at getting what she doesn’t.
Fueled off chaos, and lonely, and silence.
So she makes every blinking eyelash a collision.
The first day we met, she kissed me, drunkenly like high-school.
I couldn’t taste it then, but her chest is a hallway, her head is detention.
There is something burning behind her pupils,
but her eyes sit like nicotine filters.
Don’t give her matches; she will light them.
Don’t give her sweat; she will drink it, she will break you.
Left alone she will shatter your teacups, and ash on your loveseat.
Sit shotgun as you drive on your guilt-trips.
Switch faces like Shakespeare masks.
She will hang up, stare dirty, and laugh crazy.
She will wake in the middle of moonlight,
steal you away from dreams of yellow leaves and iridescence.
Holding her mistakes as paint-brushes as the blood drips solar-systems
on the kitchen tile.
She will smile like empty clock faces,
laugh like the bottom of vodka bottles,
apologize for overshooting eleven stitches.
No. You cannot have a cigarette.
I wish I was the one with the needle and thread,
sowing with insurance paid fingers her miscalculations,
I would hem her hands over themselves so she would know what it felt like to be helpless.
Embroider the word “Consequences” into her forearm.
She wears manipulation lipstick.
She thinks because shes a psych major, she can sweet talk the doctors.
But girl, right now there is someone being paid to check up on you hourly.
So take the attention. Take the white walls and white linens. Take being lonely, and you’re alone.
Take being sober in a hospital ward.
I cannot carry you. My head is heavy enough.
This world is gonna lose you, around and around in traffic circles.
So take each person as a road map, we are not pit-stops, or bathroom breaks.
Every day your faith is gonna dare your heart to stop beating, trick your eyes into crossing,
reality is gonna mug you in the middle of the street, steal back what you think the world owes you.
Please stop saying you’re sorry.
Responsibility will come easy, the hart part is keeping it;
owning it like the fingerprints on the bottle, or the bloodstains on the blanket.
No, I’m not laughing.
No, this isn’t funny.
Your ribcage is a harness, if you let it, life will hang you.
I cannot catch you.
I can barely stand to watch you fall.
— Sierra DeMulder 1:00 AM (via andtherestofheavenwasblue)
Werewolf by Sierra Demulder
The sun is setting on our eyelids, so listen to the cadence above my ribcage
something wicked lies here. dormant.
beating the shit out of my insides just to remind me that it’s there.
I am a werewolf.
I walk into the daylight with scratches that came from the darkness of my pores
but I swear, I never wanted to die.
I was 14 years old, barely breasted this thin wrist kiss to kitchen knife on my yellow bedspread with white flowers, no red flowers, no blood,
because it was just a kitchen knife
and I was just seeing how thick the stubborn skin was.
the second was a lady’s razor
the third was an exacto-knife
the fourth was a box cutter, which to this day I still have- it is rusted.
Like Ofelia I am attracted to water,
blue handle, red blade,
I have thrown it away twice.
Sent its demons to slice its shadows
waiting until I missed it –the rip- I missed it.
Most people see box cutters and think airplanes, think failed security, think rectangles and pentagons.
Me? I just see red lines like lipstick.
more addictive than cocaine; This is dependence.
Stripped of pipes and filters I am captivated by straight strokes and sharp edges.
My father has been dry for fourteen years, and he tells me,
“An alcoholic is always an alcoholic, and sober is just another word for thirsty.”
my hands are too thirsty to admit on paper the last time I etched regret into my leg because the blade is still in me, this sickness is still in me,
and everyday it calls to me to open up and let it breathe.
I have felt it dancing like the devil in the belt felt metal kissing tissue
howled temptation into my scars when the moon was blackened out
carved “I am better than this” on the inside of my thighs and in the morning the scabs just read “Weakness.”
My own fingers are abusive.
So shoot me with a silver bullet,
hold my hands away from their victim.
I do not have layers of eyeliner and teen angst.
I am not a little girl just looking to get looked at.
I do not walk down the street, or across it. I just live there.
This is like breathing in pine pitch.
It’s like the shower water is gasoline and you’re playing with matches.
It’s like looking through a stack of needles for a piece of daylight.
It’s like saying it’s a rusty nail, saying it’s barbed wire, saying it’s a cat scratch-
it’s telling your mother it was an accident.
It’s not doing the one thing you want to when you know it only hurts yourself, so why the hell not?
When all you want to do is break like bones, and go into the drawer that isn’t ever opened anymore.
I am not looking for pity. I have baskets full.
I am not looking for attention, there is a reason you don’t see many scars.
I think it’s sick that this remedy requires something to be broken
veins enclosed with red fencing.
I do not believe the band-aids are healing.
They are just another layer.
This is just another way of feeling
Heart Apnea - Sierra Demulder
When he sleeps,
the snoring does not bother me:
the rhythmic growl, gravel shoved
across the sidewalk of his throat.
It is the grasping, desperate way
in which he takes in air - his gulping lungs
as if every dream is filled with water
and he is trying to inflate
the life jacket under his skin.
I babble in my sleep. He believes
I am trying to tell him how my heart works,
says he will translate the manual one day.
I want to ask him: am I the ocean?
Are you drowning in everything
I don’t say when I’m awake?
The Victorians honored human hair
because it was the only trait of the body
that remained after death. I shaved my legs
in your shower. I hid long strands of myself
in your pillowcases. That is all that is left.
Thinking of someone else during sex
is a cardinal sin punishable by nothing.
The heart is wanting. The heart
is perpetually two-years-old. The heart
is bad at sharing. The heart is a hungry
gas tank. The heart is not a metaphor.
When the teacher asks you what grade
you think you deserve, you will always say B+.
90% of Americans will vote for Obama
because the night before the election, he will
slow dance with his wife and kiss her forehead
and we will want so badly to believe that
they actually fucking love each other.
Writing a list of ways I could be better
and writing a suicide note are the same thing.
The heart lives in a packed elevator.
It doesn’t know what floor its waiting for
but it wants it wants it wants to get off.
The Victorians believe when you write a poem
from an airplane that moment becomes suspended
in the sky forever, like a ornament in God’s mobile.
So now you know: somewhere between Phoenix
and Las Vegas, a thousand miles up, there you are
like a grocery list pinned to blue.
— Sierra DeMulder, “Facts Written From an Airplane” (via fleurishes)
I caught you once,
killing a squirrel in our back yard with a rock.
Your 8-year-old body shivering, illuminated.
Through tears, you told me you loved it.
I assumed you meant the squirrel.
Even after I watched the news—
clips of a 10 gallon blue vat being carried out of your building,
your refrigerator sealed with police tape,
pictures of the boys you kissed too hard.
Even after I heard what they found in your refrigerator,
(two human heads and a heart in your freezer)
I could not bring myself to call you a monster.
Your father told the reporters
when I was pregnant with you, I experienced seizure-like fits,
foaming at the mouth. My swollen body would stiffen and
and my eyes would peel back like paint
as if I were trying to look at you.
The day your apartment building was gutted and paved over,
I began to obsess over your baby pictures, looking for anything
that could predict the way you learned to love seeing things inside out.
I held them close to my face as if some of the innocence could rub off.
Your brother legally changed his last name from Dahmer,
but I cannot erase the stretch marks. I still see your eyes in my mirror.
The scar where they pulled you like Persephone from my stomach.
There is no reminiscing here.
No one wants to hear how you were a wonderful child.
They only want to watch your car crash of a life on repeat.
Your adolescent obsession with road kill—
how you would bike for miles with a garbage bag filled with
whatever cadavers you found on the street.
How could I possibly not see this coming, they say.
Did I squeeze you too tightly when we crossed the street?
Child, when your father and I fought at night, did you mistake it for lovemaking?
Did I teach those fingers to pluck families apart like flower petals?
(I love you, I love you still.)
Darling, was it the sound of the dead dog’s bones as your father
dropped them one by one into the bucket that seduced you?
Did it sound too much like your pulse?
Was it the day I drove away from you—
freshly graduated from high school,
2 months premature of your first murder.
Did I put too many states between us?
Did you put your own heart in the freezer,
next to the thought of me?
Would Mary be forsaken if Jesus had not grown
to be the son god had intended to father?
If he did not wear a crown of thorns
but instead, wrapped it around his knuckles.
Will I be forgiven for the sins I did not commit, but created?
When you were small, i told you
you can grow up to be anything
By: Sierra DeMulder