thefrangrancetheyleft - Tumblr blog

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

when georges bataille wrote, “no greater desire exists than a wounded person’s need for another wound” & when gillian flynn wrote, “a child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort” & when ocean vuong wrote, “sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you’ve been ruined” & when lisa m. basile wrote, “did you inherit a sickness? did you blame god? do you believe in god? do you believe in yourself? are you still on fire? did you ever put out the fire?” & when stephen a. guirgis wrote, “why didn't you make me good enough so that you could’ve loved me?”

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

Do you know what its like to be trans?

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

evansville, 09.22.18

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

have you eaten? (i love you). did you get enough sleep last night? (i love you). how do you feel today? (i love you). did you have a nice day? (i love you). will you come on a walk with me? (i love you). here's some fruit I cut up for you. (i love you) (i love you) (i love you).

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

lowercase b Butcher

I pity whoever has yet to wage war with their body, let loose the horns of battle and bellow the forges to bristling heat- -baking the sweat from our napes & necks in the pursuit of an iron masterpiece Does the sight of my thigh cut, can it rend flesh the same way a sword can,  do you feel the same thrill on it’s edge that I do with it in your hand Placed at it’s precipice and point perhaps you’d already feel damned Would the soft of my hand bludgeon you the same way a truncheon could, should you pull from it’s pressure - every bone of it measured with brutal potency Is it hard to see the red streaks, Angry, and dark like the final form of a spark, jagged & flashing - the length of my legs. Some would call penance for life’s greatest alchemy I? Expend, feeding corpse over corpse to each landscape, sight set - as a lonely conqueror I long for a lake I can see myself in. I drink the knolls with wind lively enough to elongate my hair, Trees at such heights I feel dwarfed next to them. What I can’t find in green I’ll buy in blood, Only every wanting to sculpt myself,  In fear, they call me a butcher, my body too sacrosanct for my touch, In defense, I must be prepared to be one

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

Jenny Slate, Little Weirds

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I just wish I could feel it all over again. All the hurt. All the pain. All of you. All of us.

- o. leary

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- sing, o goddess, the rage of helen | by prithvi. p

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

Sophie

A glistening reflective surface, Muttered with the cluttered nondescript edges so sharp as to cut your own image to ribbons, descriptively Mirrors- Belong in every spattered saproling too moondrunk to grow beneath the picture’s afterglow, Wondering when you could step through the portal portraying some other person’s sloped downwards lips- -so sobering, trying to focus and convince oneself of the hazy, hated image that stares back, eyes glassed over with accusations long past their expiration dates- for when you were supposed to start living your best life. Cornered under delineation as to reduce smoothness in favor of illustration, gaze straining against every roadsign that points towards your skin, pupils non-affably clasping to anything- -to avoid grasping the gravity of the situation. You never wanted to look in a mirror that depicted the world you lived in, Because it was a world outside of your heart. Unbearably starting to trace the width of your jaw or the infestation that outlines it’s abscess, exclamation points ending sentences that never stop ringing in your ears because the sight never stops leaving your vision, Lesions  are what you’d rather adorn your face- -At first-  Trading pain for curse, You’d rather be a disfigured woman than a handsome man. So the plan is to hate yourself enough that you never have to accept who you are. That when your hands, feebly bring themselves to break the flat shimmer behind your tears, you see they’re too big. That the same doorframes that once sheltered your growth and recorded it betrayed the span of your shoulders instead of your hips. Crisp and uniform do your clothes lay flat to outline your neck, Frog forever stuck in your throat, When will you start listening to yourself? You’d rather fingers curl around it to justify the curdle that escapes when you open your mouth to make sound and speak, Sobbing in octaves too low for even your self esteem to match- -not enough snatch when you turn to mourn the lack of your curves, careful not to untuck all the baggage you’ve stuffed inside of you, both physical and emotional. Like your nails you are stuck, waited to be painted with something other than sadness, hopelessly closing your eyes, regretting the mascara that doesn’t smudge, could you please stop judging yourself long enough to see that for all the loathing you have for the things you lack, there is a woman staring at you appreciatively for all the things you have and that’s all that you’d like, for mirrors to start showing her looking back.

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I can’t write goodbye. (that’s the title.)

I want to paint the pain outside my eyelids to wish whispers into words, conforming to every packaged guarantee for performance I would like to deform every image of love you’ve thought of. But you’ve torn me, Stripped the canvas onto this spilled ink I weep Onto-- -better things, you bequeath to me words of outstanding virtue, as if they weren’t spattered at the expense of my life’s masterpiece. Can you hear the breath leave my pupils? Ink blots blot plots planted on HD images scanned and thoughts crop out the bigger picture Man- -We really fucked this one up. I’ll put back the broken pen, but what cup will hold the broken parts that fit like dollar-priced Lego sets purchased in gas stations to the acclaimed 0% rebate of my heart. Nobody told me you could main-in tragedy. But I can definitely tell you this isn’t a poem about some breakup, So lets break this down. My heart is stapled to the sleeve, And I’m about to lose the biggest influence to you- Death, Something I never thought the same breath would touch my mother. I can’t deal with that anymore than I could tell someone I truly love them. and that’s what these words are, frank thankless musings about how my life’s composition is stuck between Looking, and losing.

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To be continued (that's the title.)

If I burned her name on my throat, Maybe the spot she stands on would catch but promoting her presence won't purose her purpose to mine Too morose to notice the laughter in her eyes Catch her? Even with my arms around her No bind surrounds her They call them Bound-aries Like anyone expects connection to be easy, hands free easy of access the gravity hits me I try to run past this but epiphany hits catalyst and i wonder Is she my axis? And every step she takes away from me takes away a part of eternity If I had the cruelty inside, I'd call it death by taxes Afraid to touch her skin too long, can I move past it, her face so bright it tries to ignite the ashes of my soul first set aflame from the stem of my throat And it only takes two days away from her to put a look of fear on any mirror i peruse, I ground the red pill up and snort it, shooting red rabbit hole emergency exits into my veins and there is no going back because the urgency of which i miss her with could white wash pain and clip the hate from my eardrums And would we, learn the worth of whispers if absence took the place of sister or brother, father or mother. I miss her like moons miss orbit,  like kids miss careless wishes Because as an adult all I can do is wish for patience As paranoia points plutonium pellets at my personality I ponder the point of perhapsing her loyalty If she betrays her words, mine stand out like skyscrapers Target for hate, when even destroyed still create.

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

Speak Love

Phone me, Not phony, Pick up and dial My sweet denial that we're all able to be free- -Bleeding hearts take apart and reassemble after you've bled me dry the tart in my voice and sweet in my throat. This isn't a doorstep, speak true, And I'm not your god, I'll forgive you. Never let someone make you feel like expressing yourself is like talking down to you, look to the pages inside your head's staircase To transcendence, Where every step is marked with your struggle, you don't need a rebuttal for what you love anymore than how beautiful your story is- -and glorious you are. See how far you've made it? So why make up anything less remarkable than the pencil marks that measured your growth on doorframes? Whether you frame the pictures of your youth or flame them, You're not the same problems you faced. And if you're parent's weren't there, Remember they have it worse- for never seeing such a wonderful being grow up of course. So, even if we're broken or beaten Even if we've been lied to or cheated Let yourself be the first person you're smitten with, Because love is something nobody should regret to have written.

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My arms are like branches

My body a tree and my arms like branches Grasping and wrapped in the certainty of who I was as a person. And I was able to take that, and plant it inside the trunk of my soul But now I wonder if I am a collection of pieces or a predominant whole. My arms extend, like branches, venting toxicity and negatives, Ending with the preemptive metaphor of people who hurt me. I call them leaves. But I have to look at myself and wonder if I was another person's injuries. Does that trunk of my being signify a cultivation of growth and knowledge Or is the immobility a problem? I don't know who I am anymore, So I'm climbing back up roots to cling to curiosity and being fair, So the good points of who I am have a chance to also be there. But am I pulling the roots out by seeking them? In seeking to cleanse myself, Have I lacerated my branches? Stripped of my blossoms would anyone still call me beautiful Or is beauty on a huge recall because we can't look at the base of a person to admire and appreciate someone.  Why must we cut or trim and pluck or slim someone to our image? When you cut a tree down, the beauty becomes death and there's a lack of words for disgusted and air for this breath that cusps on edges of abuse And I guess the real question I have for myself is "Did someone cut me down too?"

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

When children go to war. (long)

There’s nothing like the satisfaction of bottles breaking against concrete Beat to creeds spoken in hushed toned cell phone receivers Do you remember being enthused by shattered devil nectar, Like each bottle was a dream not supposed to nurture your sense of adventure I looked through the world with curious eyes once Jumping into ditches and sleeping in trees, I was a kid. Do you remember when looking into the night sky yielded stars and half-hearted sighs They promised us we were special Each commercial message whispered sweet nothings through cranked up speakers Like we were supposed to be the next big thing, but instead confidence made us meeker. Crestfallen children look to cut out the criminals of convention, Sweep past small shop doorsteps to brush off the barstool induced intentions Arm yourself to your big boy teeth with Super Soakers and water balloons Because this is war on every poor bastard that believes the sky is the limit. Wrinkled hands from retrieval of the water armory I see “Tell me what’s on your mind, solider.” “I thought we were supposed to stop at red lights and stop signs sir, and be kind, and feed the cat, and not get dirty, and kiss moth—“ “Good night, Soldier.” I couldn’t count the caliber of cold water that streamed from the plastic pistol. Hostel, they called it. Brother turned against brother, we tried to pretend it was necessary, That each soul followed up on stolen opportunity that cost us peace. The water was incendiary to the testosterone packets in our tummies. Roars raised over the deranged downpours, and with everyone soaked, We decided to tally the score. Eye for eye, we were more or less blind. Devin took Kevin’s who took Kenny’s who took Denny’s who took Benjamin’s-- --Look at the mess we’re in! Promised the sky but instead we over extend and our wings burn up in the atmosphere. Do you remember when our innocence fueled our intention? They say you turn into an adult at 18, but it’s more obscene than that. You earn the stumps on your back much sooner than you’d expect. More because you can’t detect their claws digging into you Prove the loss of flying and of dying innocence is worthy of our penance, man children. Ding…Ding…Ding…. I’m 6 again. The bell of redemption is still synonymous for dinner. The other boys get up, put their weapons away. The reddened craze in our stomachs goes away and is replaced with hunger. The winds pick up and I start to feel barren, cold. Mother. I’m coming home.

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

Lost & Found

You picked me up at the lost and found

And boy, was I glad,

All my old owners had dropped me off at the pool, located at the corner of “sorry, but” street and “you’re not good enough” avenue

Getting picked up so many times I felt like a worn out jacket that’s lost its identity.

Faded because the heart-seeking missiles I came attached with, no batteries included, would always misfire and the person’s heart that wore me had to avoid them…

At least that’s my explanation for all their change of hearts.

All my previous possessors always told me straight away

“You’re going to love your new home.”

But not you.

Silent car ride to a destination I still haven’t found,

I waited for the lies to come out of your mouth like a secondhand serenade

But they didn’t, and you took me out of the car to slip me on like I was brand new, like you couldn’t wait to try me on.

Perfect fit were the two words I used to describe it in the melancholic pattern that somehow..

Stained my personality like taco stains on fabric.

Yesterday you had me around your shoulders like you needed two extra arms to fill the sleeves you were supposed to be held in.

And I was there to lend an extra hand,

At least…It seemed like you needed a fantasy to fulfill

Closed eyes, its nighttime and normally my possessor would leave me on the windowsill.

You held me like a security blanket, and I was guarding you from all the monsters that everyone is too scared to talk about.

You woke me up by asking me if there was any luck left in these stitches,

But I stayed silent to answer the desperation in your voice for something other than a masquerade of jumbled up situations filled to the brim with doubt.

The real reason is because I would probably tell you that the luck only exists if there’s someone’s heart left in the fabric.

And I’m that nervous, because somehow the strings that kept me together got stuck on a stop sign because some people didn’t know when to stop when it counted.

My confidence was the hit and run victim,

Macabre stains still can’t be rubbed out of my cloth, just like my thoughts that everything was fabricated anyways

Because it seems like if love was a butterfly and I had a net the size of an elephant the result would be still be the same.

I’m never going to catch it!, I have two left feet and my only excuse is a car accident from years ago..

But if you want…I’ll be your jacket.

Oh..? that stuff at the beginning of the poem..?

Sometimes I dream about what it would be like if I asked you out instead of just sticking my thumb out to catch a ride out of this lost and found

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

War

Pain, Released Like all noise should cease Long enough To cloud and shut out my Thoughts Proud enough –not yet strong enough I know That by tomorrow these borrowed feelings might burst And this dark curse could dissipate, Waking up old celestial weapons And calling forth heaven To quake Leave fear shaking Caking in sweat and blood Men crawling in dark mud This is war Not with guns But swords – and shields Fought in every field Unyielding stress But who would have guessed we could bend? No end to this battle fought by bishops and knights Dark days but promising nights Blood caked backs Like we could make this right Like We were born to fight Each other All those crying mothers Dying brothers Silent sisters and slack jawed misters Staring Moving picture box losing a little bit more innocence each time Each shot fired said to have no rhyme or reason It’s treason To crush another’s knuckles in a cry for help If we ever evolve past this is only for God to tell All the children All the broken Who’s innocence Was wrongly stolen What were their names? What kind of a game –is this? Trading penance like collectible stamps As if all we were was just another answer Just another cancer to infect the earth Spreading each new Black Plague like a baby’s birth If humans were the virus Than war must be the cure But if we’re the philosophers How can we be so sure?

[thefrangrancetheyleft]

Til tomorrow

If the sky turned black and we had to leave, Could you conceive a better fate for eternity? If blood-covered money bombs got dropped-- If –time stopped We’d watch the mushroom cloud sunset, And yet..—and yet…--Nobody would find it beautiful. There would be no sublime in our time, And we still treat our lives so worthless. So why should the end of them even exist? I say we live forever or die in the attempt! After all, our lives our priceless. But does that make me greedy? Could you call me needy?-- For wanting Death’s right hand signature on my peace treaty Tweety please. Silvester isn’t anywhere in distance-- And in this instance-- I don’t think hope is, either. If that makes me a liar for telling you I hope you’re still alive by next evening, Then I’d rather be a deceiving conniver of hypothetical apocalypses than This. Than me. I’d rather us live in our mind, Where at least life  spans meaning across any given amount of time. Or where I don’t have to worry whether or not wings would grant me flight, Because being near you makes me imagine I have superpowers. Like, I’d run my hand through your shimmering locks Like American fear of Soviet Atom bombs, and I’d swear they have the same effect. I’d feel the nuclear decay of my cell’s lifespan and-- BAM-- --Now I’m made of helium.. And, umm.. I guess being near you really does make me feel weightless, And even if you felt like I could be your imaginary, cartoon-watching superhero who’s only weakness was krypton.. Your feelings would still be borrowed. So, I belligerently beg of you-- --Let me forget about today until tomorrow.