Here's looking at you, kids.|
The Gift - 2"Nice to see you again, Eli," the psychiatrist, Dr. Anderson, said. She was smiling but Eli could tell it wasn't genuine. He knew a fake smile when he saw one.The Gift - 2 by TheEmptyChest
His eyes wandered from her too-white teeth to the black, cushioned chair on which she sat to her office. She was an organized person by the looks of it. There was a desk next to her. Stacks of crates were situated at the edge with papers shuffled into them. Her computer and keyboard were both well-dusted. Pens and pencils were clumped together in a utensil holder. There was a box of tissues at the ready for when he broke down and spilled his secrets. The only thing that looked remotely out of place was the evaluation sheet she had on a clipboard in front of her, ready to label him. Eli leaned against the back of the couch she’d told him to sit on and added, “Should I lie down?”
“If you want to,” she said.
There was a coffee mug on the desk, which she put to her lips before speaking. "How are you fee
The Gift - 1It was just past three in the morning and Eli stood naked in front of his bathroom mirror, examining gashes in his forehead—linear grooves etched into his skin, extending from his hairline to his eyebrows, crisscrossing and burning. His girlfriend Melinda stood outside the locked bathroom door, rapping on it, twisting the knob that wouldn't budge, yelling at Eli to let her in.The Gift - 1 by TheEmptyChest
Eli applied hydrogen peroxide to the cuts he could see, then touched his fingers to the back of his head, feeling warm, goopy blood clumping his hair.
"Eli, come on!" Melinda was getting pissed now. "Open the damn door!"
Eli washed his bloody fingers and then did as she said. It took a moment for him to register the sight of her. Her eyes were wide with anger and worry, her face streaked with blood—his blood, the droplets that had fallen from his forehead onto hers and had trailed down the side of her nose when she bolted up.
She had put on his shirt when he ran away. She was wearing it now, th
Post-It Notes to Send Back in Time (part 2)i.Post-It Notes to Send Back in Time (part 2) by TheEmptyChest
You own your own body.
Your life is yours.
And don’t let
tell you otherwise.
It’s okay to believe in God.
It’s okay not to.
And it’s okay to go back and forth
between the two
because no god worth believing in
would punish you
for doubt or disbelief.
Learn how to take a compliment.
Invisibility isn’t so bad.
When people notice you
they scrutinize you.
If they don’t see you
you have ultimate freedom.
So don’t be afraid to hide in that corner.
Own that corner. It’s yours.
Pay no heed to art snobs.
Don’t be an art snob yourself.
Remember how you were told
that every time you “sinned” it was
equivalent to crucifying Jesus
all over again
so every mistake you made
no matter how small
made you feel like you’d killed someone?
Yeah. That was bullshit.
It’s okay to not have a boyfriend.
It’s okay to not want one.
Hate is not the problem,
it’s what you h
role modelsSo there was this guy. He and my dad were best friends for like twenty years. They went to high school together and didn’t drift apart like most high school friends do. He was at our house constantly, drinking beers, watching games, talking politics. I showed him my drawings. I only did that when I was comfortable, when I trusted a person. And he told me I was a damn good artist and I sat there grinning like an idiot until my cheeks were sore. I started calling him uncle and he liked that. He liked that a lot. Said it warmed his heart.role models by TheEmptyChest
So this guy, he was a fire fighter. He’d run into burning buildings that were about to collapse and pull people out. Everybody loved him. Everybody. He even got an award once—an excellent citizen award or something like that from the mayor. People clapped him on the back, shook his hand, wiped tears from their eyes... women asked him to hold their babies and take pictures, the whole shebang. He was everyone’s hero, you know? Littl
can't see the changeI am
starving interim ghost
flesh candid, loose-licking calcium
mind like wire
bent and shaped and shuffled
in unlabeled collection bins
staring through whiskey glass,
looking lost, buried
cracked time capsules
with less-than-best intentions
covered in sickness oil,
shuddering the pause
ars haikueticathe rhythm of a
snapshot. five-seven-five. why?
to paint all the moons.
PyramidsThe secret remarked in dead languages
kept in pyramids for the greed of men.
The steel vaults—
all locks and deadly mechanisms.
It was so simple.
They killed each other before the sun
on rolling fields of red and brown grass.
They murdered each other in the light of the moon.
All the world's gold and holy secrets.
It was love.
VirginiaRobert E. Lee lives just miles from my door,
bending at the right. On the corner, is a white church
housing brown skin in the Virginia spring. My best
friend’s father has a Confederate flag hanging in his
living room. A white military man married to a Filipino
woman because her skin is a few shades lighter, more
tan than true brown, light enough to speak
love to, on occasion.
The Civil War grounds up by Todd’s Tavern are fenced
off, but momma swears she hit a ghost on the bridge
one night, eyes blooming in refracted headlights—
allowing the past to slip into consciousness
—fingers curling like the flowering dogwoods, singed
at the tips, like fire ants threading their clay houses,
hidden under soft mounds in the earth.
And the bees are building up in my throat, as I watch
the fruit in my neighbor’s yard begin to rot.
I can’t touch the roots. But the bees are trembling like
some cracked bell, a revolution, a crying.
snippetsi. your hands are maps i wanna memorize inside and out
so i'll always know the way home.
ii. you're dead to me but i keep you alive
on paper and black text.
iii. i will weave stories out of the lines on your skin.
iv. joke's on you: i made my heart out of nothing but brittle plastic,
good luck finding a home in there.
v. empty like a hollowed out pumpkin.
except not as scary,
just more pathetic.
vi. i have secrets that no one knows that i'm scared i will end up
taking to the grave.
i don't know if my soul can handle all that baggage.
vii. i want to hold fire in the palm of my hand
fire and love are most destructive.shame i'm smoking menthols
and believing i can keep you.
cup my face in your hand
from a million miles away.
i'm talking to universe,
but she hasn't got much to say.
i'm breathing in the rain
when you reach for my hand.
we're ancient royalty
half an hour until closing time
as we breathe life from hookah hoses
and let it ache in our skulls.
i can feel the weight of your worry
and it is making my shoulders ache.
your energy is planets
but nothing aligns.
Cry w/ meI am becoming.
The woods are hungry
& it echoes into
urges to find the
of where my darkness
was born among
the aspen leaves
flirting w/ each other.
The cricket in my
squawks at the
& I can remember
the taste of shaken
it tastes the same
as June tree’s tripping
on my tongue.
My nails grow,
clawing at the
& no matter what
I find myself
biting down on
from here on—
licking in my grave—
will be holding
& its rowdy sirens
doesn’t scare me
studenti like your cutoffs a lot
i've only ever seen skinny punk kids
wear jeans like that
but they suit you so much better
your boxers hang out
and i slip my hand under the waistband
feel the fine hair of the skin there
you are always pouring something into something
so you can only giggle when i touch your butt
and when you giggle, i do too
i think it's important that we laugh together so much
you've taught me how not to take myself
so damn seriously
how life is not a series of tests
a series of moments
masking opportunities to learn
i archive exchanges with strangers
like a student
locking pinkies with your silent scanning
you are a welcome observer in all situations
i seek to mimic your tender patience
you seek to mimic my ability to be mindless
our reciprocity is perfect
i count myself lucky in each instance of imbalance
for our equilibrium