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.
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
if alice in wonderland was set in 2012,i might cut my hair if it didn't remind me of you,
but just like the fade from september into the pits of october,
i'm not alice, this isn't wonderland, but i am just as surrounded by things that yell,
"eat me! drink me!" and they don't say it but i know they'll all make me bigger,
sadder, fatter, too big to fit into a house, my arms my legs come shooting out,
everything i feel is just too loud-
i should be better than i am.
i should be taking the world by the shoulders, shaking back its shoulders because i am a storm, i am a force of nature and you will take notice-
but my winds are quiet. my rain is sad.
i'm too afraid to swell up in full vigor,
to take what is mine in case it's taken from me again,
i will never forget what you did- in camera flash moments, in sharp moments-
to leave me broken.
there are some cuts that never close up.
there are some things that never get spoken.
and there are some things yo
(it's not like I'm trying to clean myself up too)I'm sick to death
of bleeding on the carpet
and being the one
to clean it up.
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
a weight on my shouldersi can turn this pain into poetry but i cannot turn it into something worth having.
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.)
heaven and hell look the same from undergroundi scratch my skin til it looks like it's burnt off. i don't eat til i am begged and pleaded and my lover won't eat because of my sadness. it's okay because it's how i cope. it's okay because i might be dying but it soothes me. i never mind.
i used to fall in love with happiness and hope but lately it's lost its charm. so now the prince rides in on his white horse in the form of fingers in my throat and handfuls of pills and hours and hours of overdosed, sleepless bliss. sometimes i think this is heaven.
i feel myself burning. i'm drowning. i promise myself this is paradise but every time i wake, my stomach turns because i see no angels, only wingless bodies and darkness.
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.
sinking sadnessi will not burden
a soul so beautiful
that my hummingbird heart
with its stammers and stutters
silences its staccato beats.
i am struck
by the sad
i am struck
more and more
as i let my thoughts
sink me further.
i don't know how
to open my mouth
when my lips
stick together in my sleep.
i forget how to breathe
when i'm out at night
a few drinks under my belly
and men who are not you
rub their hands
up and down my body
in their minds.
is my fingers in my throat
because i sinned,
is the way my body has changed
but my mind hasn't,
is not knowing what
i'm doing to myself
is doing to you.
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
everything your silence saysi have not showered since thursday.
my hair is sticky and sprayed,
dry and dull, limp and wilting --
sad like me.
i have not seen my own hips
for three days,
i have hardly changed my clothes.
i do not want to do this.
my name is something lying forgotten
underneath the boxspring of your bed.
i am not a memory for you,
i am not a gift;
instead, i float in the crevasses
of your mind, never near enough
to the surface to be remembered.
every promise of life and love
you have given me,
every swear to never leave
i have given you --
it flounders in the ebbing seas.
i am not clean
and i am not beautiful.
my name is something lying forgotten
underneath the boxspring of your bed.
this is a poem, detailing the
wounds of my heart.
this is a poem, written for you --
you, the forgetful boy,
purple sleep dusting eyelids;
with your hands across your face
black & blue,
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."
322010.i want to be a cigarette.
because every time your hands stumble across one, you wrap your fingers tightly around it. your eyes show a sense of salvation, a sense of oh-God,-i've-wanted-you-for-so-long. with a flick of your fingers, it lights up a smile as bright as the sun.
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.
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
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
CeruleanMy favorite color is cerulean.
It feels like dipping your hand into a brook, smooth pebbles under your fingertips, the water lacing quick and cool between your fingers. It feels like the first warm day after a long winter, when you can shed your heavy coat and a light breeze brushes your arms again. It feels like a bucket of paint, not the tacky wet paint that gets on your jeans from sitting on a newly painted bench too soon. It feels like freshly washed hair woven into one long braid down your back. It feels like a glass bottle to send out to sea with a message. It feels like the surface of photographs, piano keys, and guitar strings.
It moves like bird's wings as they settle into trees at twilight. It moves like tropical fish deep in the Great Barrier Reef. It moves like the lazy rock of a row boat on the lake behind your summer home. It moves like your walk in a new pair of sneakers.
It tastes like fresh fruit, when the juice runs down your chin, and you throw the pit into the grass
please don't talk to me.Im never going to write again, she says.
Its all fabricated fucking bullshit and its stupid to put so much of my heart into something that you wont even read.
You are going to be tired in the morning
I dont care.
You are going to be so tired in the morning
I know. and youre worth it.
He used to find her endearing, but now she just talks all the time, and he kind of liked the silence. Now you just piss me off.
Thats what she thinks anyway.
My baby will be beautiful and broken and mine. all mine.
He says I need to lose myself in you and shes never quite sure if hes trying to sound romantic or its just some sick innuendo.
She cant go on living, knowing that hes around the corner or down the road or even in the same city as her. I am going to kill myself, she says and he reminds her that she is not replaceable.
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.
i don't believe in jesusno one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth.
i don't get a dollar under my pillow for having sex with my boyfriend.
there are no doctors smiling at me when i tell them my cherry has been popped.
i am a whore for having premarital sex.
i am a tramp for loving someone enough to open my body to them.
no one celebrates losing virginity like they celebrate losing teeth -
but i slip mine under my pillow anyway, and in the morning when i wake,
there is a quarter and a tiny folded note:
"you are not a slut."
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