In the Bazillions and Other Short Poems

In the Bazillions and Other Short Poems

In the bazillions…


Collected works of far away poets, no one

Remembers sitting atop my chest and

Effectively crushing everything beneath it.

There’s muscle tearing and blood squelching

As the pages slice through my heart and 

Disconnect the ropes that tie conscience to reality, 

While the hollow of my ribcage         

Does nothing but amplify the dissonance.

Bits of paper have flown into these cavities

And sealed my wounds shut, but no amount

Of dead leaf could stop the hemorrhage.


Someday they’ll remember us,

But someday is quite the journey from here.

I’m far too impatient for the wait,

I’ll be the words on your chest in the meantime.




My fingers curl around the same piece of thread

Every single day, tying and untying

Over and over again until the fibers split.

I pick them apart one by one just to twist them back together, 

Hoping they will go back to what they used to be. 


When bones tear through flesh and peek through sore knuckles,

When blood won’t pool neatly in cupped hands, 

When the cacophony drowns out the morning birds 

And becomes your sense of comfort,

Don’t look at me.


Nothing to hide, nothing to see


I’ve noticed how the crows come down to pick at my skin. 

I’ve noticed the intricacy, the resolution.

You could write elegies with my blood drawn from their beaks,

Weave tapestries from their feathers.

They tell you that they’ve been here and are planning on coming back. 


I’ll be your martyr and show you

What comes after the grief,

After the free fall into confusion and

After the why now? Why me?

Why this longing? Why this hope?

Why this clinging onto post-it notes and 

Letters in your hard-to-read handwriting?


What the gentry say to almsmen 

When they hold out their hands and receive 

Nothing but a promise.

Fists opening and closing against tar

To clutch for silver that isn’t there.




I think the problem here is that you have too many teeth.

I asked you once if you’ve ever considered just throwing them all away,

I’ve seen how hard it is for you to sleep. 

I’ve seen how many times you can’t fit them all in your mouth, 

So they fall out on their own accord,

Spit and blood dribbling down your chin,

Ruining the freshly polished linoleum floor from when your cavities last stirred a frenzy. 

I’ve given you all mine and that’s entirely my fault.


Once I tried to bury them in warm soil with hopes they would grow into something less gruesome

But all they did was rot, and you eventually knew to dig them up anyway.

You’d put them back in your mouth-

Teeth, dirt, rocks, worms and all.

You’d swallow and yell at me that they’re where they belong.


I tried forcing them into your gums once,

Planting them like ficus seeds in soft pink tissue.

It was worth the shot if it meant you didn’t have to be so conscious

about the way they hang from your lips. 


This could be punishment but, then again,

I don’t know what I have to atone for.

I still think of you even though I don’t see them anymore.

The fact that I carry the rotten fragments around in my pocket doesn’t help.

I don’t know what to do with them now.