you will know
i'm in love when i
kiss you first.
sext: this is for yousext: you are underwater. you are my head swimming as i hold my breath, you are the currents that make my heart beat, you are the waves that sway my hips. the salt of your lips is my favourite taste.
sext: if i am a hurricane, i hope you are the eye of my storm (deep inside of me, at my core).
sext: when you sleep, you are bent; bent, not broken. i will protect you from everything that threatens to shatter you. you are not made of glass, but i will bend (not break) to strengthen you.
sext: i look down and you are between my legs. you kiss me with those lips, before and after, and still there is love.
sext: if i promise you a good morning, i'll send you a poem for when you wake. if i promise you your favourite things, i'll get you strawberries (with the hats cut off), pokemon (always mewtwo), and a puppy (a blue-eyed husky). if i promise to be open, i'll take off my clothes and we can watch as the close falls to the floor. if i promise you smiles, i'll give you a thousand. if i promise
a brief love poemyou are everything-
the lilt in the voice
of the songbird,
the pillow beneath my head.
you are the nights
i can't sleep
and when dawn comes
i still smile.
if i could just get it out, it will all be betterthere it is,
looking like the monster i pull from the drain
after every shower;
there it is,
in its unending and bending and melancholy folds,
strumming like guitar strings
pricking at my fingers.
there's a certain beauty in thorns,
unless you are the rabbit caught in them.
i am inside most days,
counting food i can-eat-can't-eat-just-threw-up
and sitting in front of a tv.
i speak to no one other than the rhythm in my heart-
sometimes i touch his hand.
it's been too long
since i've felt inspired;
it's been too long
since i've been able to say in honesty entire
that i have smiled less
to distract from questions than out of happiness.
if the moon were to turn round
and show its dark side,
full in the sky like a cinema screen,
that is where i'd be.
and if i could just get it out, it will all be better.
i'll say that until my lips turn blue-
if i could just get it out, it will all be better.
but i don't write i don't paint i don't
talk about it, there is nothing to fucking talk about, leav
10 ways depression can say i don't love you1. "i'm sorry
i don't want to
come over today."
the clock reads 4pm
and i roll over in my bed
2. "i forgot it was your
i'd forgotten my own
3. "i promise i won't
the ER doesn't believe
it's an accident
4. you asked if i loved you.
i had to sneeze and it
i think you took that
as a no.
5. we haven't had sex in a month.
6. we don't see
we don't see
i even have any.
7. i never answered your text.
it asked if i was okay.
8. "i need you to open yourself
up for me," you said.
i stopped talking.
9. "what do you want from me,
apparently you didn't.
10. tonight i will sleep alone
but not really.
depression will hold me
and stroke my hair,
telling me everything
will never be
not always miserablethe last time you kissed me
was two augusts ago.
the boston harbour was bluer than
the eyes you so loved
looking back at yours when we said
i never meant goodbye.
take my lips
their feel, their taste
and press them to your own
i love you and will not
take you for granted.
i am so happy to be
in and on itself.
but time does not forget.
i remember the first time you kissed me
and how much i trembled,
my first kiss and you told me i could do better
so i melted
my face in your hand,
and let our skin stitch to the other
with the beads of excitement
that rolled down our fingers.
i know from the thick of my marrow
that the weight of your arm
(the first time)
was so immense, it should have taken
fifteen men to move it, tree-like,
to around my shoulder;
i remember the heat of your nerves
and the vibrations of mine,
getting to know one another.
(i think they fell in love, too.)
a weight on my shouldersi can turn this pain into poetry but i cannot turn it into something worth having.
a.i know she uses toothpaste
to whiten her teeth
but that's not the reason
her smile is so bright
she's got everything painted blue
with either morrissey
playing in the background
but not loud enough for you to hear the words
unless she sings them herself,
& it's much prettier that way.
i like the feeling i get
when i pull her hips
& when our chests mesh,
the way our breathing picks up
like a band when the singer
begins a new song.
we aren't anything apart
but when the lights dim
and our glasses fill,
i swear you can hear a hum
and the pluck of a guitar
searching for its harmony.
my body is a funeral servicethis morning i emptied your ashes into the sky, hoping to watch them sift through my fingers like an eagle taking flight. but the wind carried them backwards and my face became an ashtray for memories. you came back to me, like you always do, like a kiss or a reoccurring dream that i can never forget. i became cloaked in black grain, the remnants of your body. your cremated smile was caught somewhere between the stinging in my eyes and the ash on my jacket.
in that moment my body became a funeral service. my lips preached your names to the trees. i forgot what it was like to feel anything but hymns pressing down on my back like the heat of the sun. i smelled of incense and bones burning in a fire people are paid to create. it was more than i could bear. for weeks, i obsessed on how someone could lift a motionless shell of a body into an inferno, watch people die a second time and accept their paycheck at the end of the day.
i wanted to step into that crematorium and pluck pulses like f
beautyif you watch what i photograph
to know what i fear losing,
see that i am terrified
to live with no beauty.
my pulse slows at the bend of a body
and the light between limbs;
the curve of a stem
and shallow lines of living.
to embody that
is a dream just beyond reach
of another dream.
my heart picks up double time
and my eyes turn window-wide
when it becomes real
that my slender shapes,
my delicate bones,
have tucked themselves
into the bed of my skin.
i feel the shame
burrow beneath my heart.
i swallow mouthfuls
of something that tastes
my reflection skirts away from my eyes,
until it is caught and there it is held.
to look away i need to feel
my camera cradled in the basket of my hands,
white like wicker and smooth,
i play with light until it laughs;
my shutter shudders as it
when breath breathes itself
and everything turns airy,
i am buoyant.
you will never waste my timeyou need to know this:
the worst is never bad enough.
i drew you a map from your heart to mine
in case you ever got lost
but you left me before you came back
and never loved me since.
when you are right in front of my face
how am i supposed to let you grow?
a flower underfoot
woodpecker caught in springes
an ocean simply isn't enough distance
or else every breath is too far from yours.
you are the sickness i always remembered
in the spring of years past.
you are so far away that all this space makes me dizzy.
tonight i fear colic
as i roll round in sadness.
i miss you,
an ankle without its knee.
it breaks my heart to do,
but i will never stop loving you.
get me dead.i'm the girl that wishes -
not for anything good, of course -
just that she could sit in the dark
for the rest of eternity,
bleeding crimson onto the keyboard
as she types away dead poetry.&she's the bad dream
you can't wake up from.
no matter how many times
you tell yourself it wasn't real,
it's always in the back of your mind,
haunting you from the shadows.&she'll take the rest of her antidepressants
just to escape from the thoughts -
the thoughts of you breaking her heart,
even though she knows you never will.¬hing she says is poetic;
no, that's not what's expected.
and you can't shock people,
because that's when they start to worry.&you'll speak of birth control
and carbon monoxide and all these other things
that no one my age should be taking.
and all i'll do is walk out the door.&sometimes that's all you can do.
lock the joints."i remember the curve of your bones."
"yeah, every last part of your body. i know the place your hip bones try to escape and to what extent. your ribcage seemed longer than everyone elses'. your thumb pops in and out of place.
but all of that seems just like us."
"yeah, our relationship. we were together for two years, but we never really wanted to be; we wanted to leave.
and i think i know why."
"yeah, because we stole too many bottles of alcohol from the liquor store. we spent too much money on cigarettes. we wasted too much gas trying to hide from your grandmother. we worried so much about getting away from the world.
and i have a theory on that, too."
"yeah, we were raised to run away. we were both raised in different homes with the same morals. screaming, pounding, slamming doors; it all just adds to the fact that we were never meant to overwelcome our stay. people get sick of us. they throw us out.
and i might know why."
an apology letter to my body.i am sorry,
i treated you like disposable napkins. like cheap china, or a rug feet have worn the 'welcome' off of. for treating you like fast food in a landfill and for letting others treat you that way too.
most days i can't look at you in mirrors,
when i should be writing you love letters .
i have deprived you,
i have scarred your passages and eroded your halls.
i have let your sacred places be defiled.
you are a country i have never learned to call home,
a language no one has ever spoken.
i made you into a map i told everyone not to read,
planted railroad tracks like break crumbs, like my flesh was an industrial revolution i sometimes follow with my fingertips.
for the days my stomach became a ghost town,
my mouth a forgotten portal.
for the days spent with two fingers down my throat
like the trigger of a gun reversing the cycle of food.
i'm sorry for the nights i didn't sleep
and the days ballet became punishment.
for the days every muscle felt a
i'll tell you a secret: someday this world is going to end
and when we die we'll only be left
with fragile memories
tell me.if i'm breathing.
if i'm dreaming.
if i'm sleeping.
if i'm drowning.
if i'm dying.
if i'm faking.
if i'm leaving.
if i'm staying.
if i'm loving someone else.
if i'm here without you.
if i'm running.
if i'm bleeding.
if i'm healing.
if i'm crying.
if i'm lying.
if i'm home.
if i'm away.
if i'm alone.
if i'm lonely.
if i'm screaming.
if i'm alive.
because i don't want to know.
Do you believe?"Do you believe in Angels?"
I couldn't help the gentle laugh that escaped me; he had a habit of asking such questions, for no reason whatsoever. Because of it, I often wondered what went on inside his head. I relocated my gaze to my right, where he sat beside me. "Why do you ask?"
His legs swung lightly back and forth as the ground stared menacingly from below. One wrong move and we would fall; one wrong move and we could die. Was it the thrill that kept me with him, prevented me from thinking straight?
Cold wind engulfed us, sending chills down my spine. In the light of the moon, he looked so pure, almost angelic. I smiled and stared up at the pale globe; we often shared such moments together. Those were the moments that helped us through hard times. When we wanted to scream and give up, our conversations pulled us back to earth.
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips; still, he did not look at me. His eyes never left the moon, a quick glance at him sho
Coffeehouse Bluespeople like to drown in their misery
because it somehow reminds them
that they're alive.
take the lady sitting by the fog-kissed window, for example.
see how delicately her lower lip quivers
as she downs pints of coffee like a drug addiction
when in reality, each sip creates fissures on her tongue
and fills her stomach with caffeinated liquid
she secretly wishes was cyanide.
or watch how the curious boy with suns as eyes
turns to face you and aligns his line of sight with yours;
watch how his juvenile soul becomes
a map of bones so easy for you to read.
suddenly, you realize a gaze could have never held
that much despair
i used to be like this.
except i drank ten times more coffee with a mild dash of ecstasy
and pretended to be the Atlas who shrugged
simply because he could no longer
carry the weight of the sky
on his shoulders.
this was until i understood i wasn't the only one who felt this way,
that adults who constantly relied on caffeine
and kids who were born with celes
the best advice comes from the broken .. sort through
my unconscious mind
and you will find
the most meaningful advice .
firstly , find a man
the most beautiful tears
to your eyes .
secondly , sing a song
in a crowd of people
and don't worry
if your pitch
is awfully off .
thirdly , dive
beneath the waves
of salt in your eyes .
fourthly , donate
your unconditional love
to those in need of it .
fifthly , procrastination
can sometimes be
your closest friend .
sixthly , hanging curtains
are much more beautiful
without blood stains .
seventhly , don't ever
feel that you are alone
( because i will always
be here for you) .
eightly , your song
is not meant to be chosen
by hand ; let it
into your soul .
ninthly , faith
is not something
to be ashamed of .
tenthly , addiction
may be strong ,
but your will
is always stronger .
because i don't care
who you are ,
where you come from ,
what you do
or believe in .
all i know is this :
you deserve the best
this horrid world has to offer .
I Don't Miss AdolescenceMy sister asks if I'll do her makeup.
Mami promised she would;
now she's tired and screamed
when Maria reminded her
senior prom is tonight.
She says, "I have a hickey on my neck,
something she doesn't want to cover,
and you've always
done a better job
of highlighting the subtle graces
of my structure,
the angles we share."
but I can't pick you up."
So she arrives in a flourish of exasperations,
telling me all the family business,
waving her nails in my face
and talking about her extensions.
"Do you think we need yellow concealer?
I plan to take pictures,
and the last thing I want
is to remember him
every time I look back,
the purple ghost
of high school regret
on my skin."
"It's not a problem.
Just close your eyes;
when you open them,
you'll never be able to tell
he touched you.
Maybe you'll forget him
in a couple years,
as time washes by
and new experiences
dull what has already passed."
She sets her purse on the table
shaking her head.
when the boys kiss our mouthsyou have these eyes that are so dull and so cold.
they stare at her as if to say
don't get too close
but it's a little too late for that now.
she was quiet, for
you can't kiss and speak
at the same time.
your hand slipped
between her smooth thighs
you turned her
into a snake,
beneath your own pale flesh
and it was wrong.
it was all so wrong
and she knew it
but she didn't protest
just wants to please you.
she doesn't remember much,
she does remember
your mouth and
her blood dirtying
those pale sheets
you liked so much.
she looked bitter and said,
"sorry, i know those were your favourite."
that you were a
a tangled mess
hurting those who
tried to touch you.
i guess it wasn't
much of a dream
sometimes she thinks she loves you when
you've got her cheeks cupped in your warm palms,
but then you go and give her a reason not to.
all she wants is to be surrounded in your scent