Submissions by Hugs-Trees

The aspect of my sexuality that I have found myself most interested and rooted in, is one that we talked about n my Psychology of Human Sexuality class today. S&M.

I started cutting myself in eighth grade. Just a few initial cuts to materialize the word “endorphin.” My freshmen year I slipped into a dark hole. What I had to look forward to in going home was the Altoid tin filled with my shiny collection of sharps. Everyday.  I became horrendously and closetedly suicidal.

This is my first year of college and the first time I’ve been to a shrink. I walked in to talk so I...

I dropped my mirror at a party last night
and everyone turned to look.
No, I did not drop the china, or stumble into shot glasses.
When they look they'll see
themselves.

They will see their blood-shot eyes
shooting across the floor,
dilated pupils attracted by the clumsy noise
of a shatter inside the kitchen door.
Look to see the broken pieces that become us.

We sway our shoulders to sounds like grinding
and the strangers' hands behind us directs our hips.
We do not think,
because we need this time
to succumb to numbness--...

Sometimes i doubt my ability to feel,
and then i think, "but all these poets,
they feel so much," and i, too, am a poet.
But what if we only write what we want?
What if our words convey only a false reality that we create for aesthetics?
What if we only sprout these beautiful words from things that are almost beautiful?

Doing my math homework is alot like smoking dope.
I calculate m times x plus b and something to do with slope.
I re-stack fractions until no integer princess could feel a pea.
My mind thinks 2, 7x, 29, 4hundred minus 8 million squared and my
brain says "SHUT DOWN."
I follow the onyx fly in the room with my eye and I follow 420
into the calculator.
I watch it 210 and swan dive 70.
7.0 and 70.00 and 69.98 can all be the same if multiple choice is your zong of mathitude.
Doing my math homework keeps me up all night.
I watch the clouds and sing...

It's twelve AM, and I am awake again
to pay that one dollar, forty five cent fee at the ATM
because i can't sleep and my appetite left town before the powder from the day had touched the insides of my willing nostrils.

I'm not afraid to drive in the dark because this is MY nighttime.
The coolness of the air is personal and intimate as
seeing my chin in the mirror, from my downward gaze.
And for the time being, the night belongs to only me.

I feel nocturnal and entitled, because this is my time to be alive,
because I don't need to sleep...