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vasha ptichkai want you to read me stories,
the very same ones
as i wrap you into,
catch you in their bindings
and smell you,
clean and summer,
inside the pages.
standing in your shower,
i wear the bodywash
that is a signature of yours,
foreign on my skin.
sometimes you are there with me,
and we are children again
as we splash water
on one another's naked bodies.
i am turning you into
a bigger reader,
a braver hero,
a stronger soul;
you tell me that
you put your phone down
and buckle your seatbelt
when you get behind the wheel
because you imagine my face
if you told me you didn't.
i want to be something new for you.
a better lover,
a happier smile,
the warmest arms you could ever need.
i never want to waver
even as tides crash my knees,
and i want you to always hear it,
close to your ear or across the state,
when i tell you
you mean the world to me.
the sickness of breathing emptinesstoday:
and my god, there's no way to pretty that up. pain is not beautiful, it is painful. use your common sense. there is no glory in suffering, there is no sparkle to sacrifice. hurt is hurt is hurt. and you can't take it for someone else, no matter how hard you try.
what i hate is that you're leaving. like, a thousand miles away worth of leaving. and don't tell me that distance means nothing to the heart, because it does: enough to make you break me before you kill me. honestly, i wonder which is worse. honestly, i'd probably rather you kill me because i've broken enough times that i don't have much left to break.
what i hate more is that i love you. i have fought harder against it than i've fought against anything else in my life, i fucking swear to god. i didn't even consider that i could love you for months. an
the death of selfi can't find words to
i can't articulate
and blood doesn't stick-
i am stuck with my self
and the monsters
who have inched in,
night by night
until their figures
loom over me,
i am mourning.
the loss of you,
no matter how temporary;
to destroy my body
beyond its crumbling pillars;
the sadness in every cell
that contains the ocean,
wave after wave of thorough dejection,
apathy and agony
that nothing seems to solve.
i do not move.
i exist because it is what i know to do.
i breathe only because it takes effort to stop.
the hole in which i am buried
is filled with heavy, sodden soil
and my blood offerings
and constantly emptying myself
receives no mercy from a deity,
i am mourning
the death of my self.
adulthoodwhen you interact with other grown-ups,
there are things you need to remember.
i am learning the fine art of Adult Small Talk-
banter for banter's sake and smiles and short, impersonal anecdotes
because you can't risk letting anyone in,
god forbid someone actually gets close.
you keep your friends in your stomach and swallow them at night to keep them close
and put your cheery face on for medical professionals even when your throat is too swollen
to drink down those friends.
those friends, you know they'll never let you down.
you see your human companions on lunch breaks and weekend days.
at night, young adults have sex and fall asleep together;
at night, older adults complain of headaches and sleep on opposite sides of the bed.
your human friends don't make you feel as good
as your other friends make you feel.
they ask about your life and how you're doing,
ask if you're still in therapy and if you're eating,
and god forbid you let them in.
they're your human friends but they don't get
listen honey, here comes your mani hear your gaslight anthem
playing in my head
for the first time in months.
my stomach is knitting itself
a raw sweater,
pink and greying flesh
from the sickness of worry.
i made the mistake
of playing it back to you.
you tell me you miss me,
you love me,
these songs in your vernacular
writing your thoughts,
but the thoughts are not yours.
it was well intentioned
but too far gone,
the thought has trailed
its way along lines
of train tracks-
i cannot think of you
unless you come back
a letter to ethanyou're fifteen minutes away.
that's a quarter of an hour, that's ten miles, that's space enough that i never have to see you again.
but still i feel my heart beating like a rabbit's foot against my rib.
i'm a girl still in denial
of being a woman with
breasts and hips and a womb.
i'm a child with my heart and i will surrender it foolishly
to the first boy to give me roses and push them into my hair.
i don't know how to love,
the way i don't know how how to stop.
but let me tell you this- it happens.
they both do.
i loved your fragile brown eyes like i'd never seen a warmer fire.
i sank my bones like an anchor to your earthly vessel and called it home.
i staggered home drunk every weekend we were together
by word only.
and i felt myself falling apart when i sighed
with sleepy repetition as we exhausted the same jokes as ever,
just a million miles different.
my mind drifted but i loved you.
the feathered finches in my chest were beat
romanticism is such bullshiti don't understand a bit
what's so romantic
about missing-you and distance,
love stressed and strained like string
across miles of roping rivers;
it's ugly and sad
and there is no cure
because i will not wait by the letterbox
praying daily on my knees to a god i know i believe in but i'm not sure you do
to hear word from you-
that you're well;
that you're happy;
that you're eating and sleeping and feeling alive;
that's what i want, you know-
i want your vitality to blaze like the great chicago fire,
i want to see your scrawl emboldened with each word
i want to see you concretely on your feet
and certain of where you are going
without a sergeant telling you how to walk.
i want you to walk across half of the states
and back into my arms.
i want you to look me in the eye
and i want to see no hesitation back
when you tell me you love me.
i never want to cry because you're leaving
because you will never leave again-
i want you to love me like flames love oxygen:
the scars on your shouldersthe scars on your shoulders
are braille to me, so that i
can read your skin, so that i
can know you better.
i like to listen to your heartbeat
and how it resounds differently
from mine, just so beautifully
like two songs played in tandem
to harmonise in rounds;
i like to hold your hands
and rub your back
so that maybe my love
can find its way through your pores
and seep into your blood
(never can i find the right words
to tell you just the way you feel to me)
and to think that and how i nearly missed you
makes me miss you more
every minute and mile we spend
i can't sleep with another body
in my bed,
but sleeping without you
leaves the space next to me
much emptier than i'd like.
my only company is
the sadness that comes from
being alone, and having no strong arms
to reassure me that i am beautiful
and no dream can hurt me-
i can only hope that
you are not the exception.
this is the pen finally knowing
this is how we hold onto the bones
we support in our bodies.
you arei want a city ruined
every time you love me.
i want to show how loudly i shake,
enough to break
faults and how it will never be yours,
and bring down skylines
when you aren't here.
there are seven weeks until my blood runs blank,
but it is so full tonight
it could drown a man.
i hope it drowns you,
the way it carries the only beautiful thing about me
my heart, my love.
it's time you pull together
your telephone wires and breathe stars
back into my body-
it was so dark without you.
there was no moon,
just the kind of black
you know could be no emptier.
i am effulgent again
with the ways i've needed to feel,
i am bursting with fire
instead of hurting, i heal,
and i'm still bright enough
to be burning like god speaks.
i myself speak too loud.
it's what happens at night when i let you love me
and my body writhes with glee
over something it has never known.
i'm afraid to wake the neighbours, or the sisters i'm loving as my own.
when i'm embarrassed by myself,
i won't ask you to hold
sleep, as an elephant1.
it is strange to see you
older and out of love with me
it is similarly strange to see me
younger and out of love with you.
i want to
throw my arms around your neck
thank you for
leading me to believe in love,
thank you for
showing me what the cock does
when it crows and summons the morning.
thank you for laying in my bed,
breathing my breath.
thank you for laying in my bed,
with your head on my breast
listening to the fluttering
bird in its nest.
thank you for staining my bed-
with your salt, it was blessed.
thank you for leaving my bed,
giving my dreams to its next.
thank you for, out of all the rest,
choosing me as the first, remembering
me with the best.
thank you for june,
and then june again.
thank you for december, and
thank you for the time
that helped me break my body in-
thank you for two ticks
on the wall of not-forever.
thank you for june to june to december.
in a few years,
when you are older still and i am
getting even younger, i want to take
semantic satiationi have become
in the form
love love love
love love love love
love love love love love
love love love love
love love love
oceanic nowheresno matter how many times i refer to oceanic analogies my words and wisdom won't grow
with the mention of the atlantic, or the mumble of the pacific or the god damn indian ocean
if you are trying to be an independent original for the first time in your seventeen or so odd
years on this rotating blue and green mass we call a planet that has countless wonders
shoved in its corners and crevices but i am lacking the ability to lift my limbs across the
prime meridian, down the equator, and past oceans full of bullshitted metaphors.
i lack no ability when it comes to tracing your ribcage, god dammit there i go again referring
to bones and designated pretty objects located between the fibers of your skin, their cool
touch reverberating against my pale pigmentation that conceals these thoughts and
emotions, blood running in counter clock wise directions towards my toes and away from my
head, i swear it is fleeing from what turns this boy into walking disaster.
maybe i'll traverse around, rippin
on what this really means, sweetheartwith little time to take
what is mine, there is a small
mouse with strong ears and tired eyes
in its burrow. he tunnels deeper and finds
with each layer removed he is closer to the
center of the earth, it is not something so
just as the milky way does not see new york city
but sees the way that it shines. the galaxy is a gentle garden
made of gelatin, dust, and gulps of god, and gusts, small balls of
cream that roll easy down the intestine and through the bowels revealing:
this is why i am here!- which is no closer to the real
answer to the real question anyway.
just as the great American city does not see the heavens,
but sees the way that they shine.
all answers are questions, too.
all questions are answers, anyway.
the teapot and its steam both containers
the woman is infinite in her expanding power.
the mouse burrows closer to the center
of the earth, his universe is triumphantly
the woman and her man create this similar effect.
what i am talking
then it happens all over againokay, listen up:
writer's block is just
another term for neutral--
no emotions, no nothing;
yes, this is bland.
even for me.
rush the semantics,
more to the point:
i had no inspiration,
no motivation to write
until i tripped (not fell,
like former supposed love)
onto you -- stumbled upon
r FACE---- it's so sweet
BOOK. but i cant read you;
oh god. why do i still do
(Not you) this to Myself?
because we still have unfinished busine---
I hope it's worth it when I'm gone.I can't even pretend things are simple anymore.
It's raining again, and with every crash of thunder, I miss you more than I can bear. I know it's not worth saying, because really nothing much is anymore, but it doesn't make it any less true.
It's eleven ten on a Friday night, and I'm sitting in the middle of the grass, watching the downpour spill off the roof. My t-shirt is clinging to my ribcage, and my hair is sticking to my face. I can feel the water running down the ridges of my spine, the backs of my hands, clumping in my eyelashes, but still, I don't move. Sometimes, when I can't stand what the world is doing anymore, I allow myself a thunderstorm to wash everything away.
It's the meteorological equivalent to a clean break. Faster to heal -- or at least, that's what they say.
The lightning is tearing across the sky, cutting through the darkness like a crack in the atmospheric layers. I'm staring at this like I half expect all the air to disappear around me while the world disinte
the last poem i will ever write for you.last spring
(after almost a year)
you lost me when
you fell into a venus fly trap.
there was even a sign saying
'THIS IS NOT A VENUS FLY TRAP'
and i believed it. i am so
sorry. you are a rose.
and what you couldn't say,
you spoke with your blood-shot
eyes leaking blood-clear tears
and i believed you because
you meant it.
i painted you turtles.
you pulled my hair.
we wasted gas and blew money on cigarettes.
we fucked like we breathed- erratic,
and savored. you held small
secrets that only i knew. we
promised to get married and
hump each other senseless.
we went hiking
and before we left
you had to have me on
your living room floor.
i had not seen you in a week
and all the messes we made were
cleansed in a semen-salty bath.
on the mountain-
we stopped at every bench for a
cigarette because we were out of
breath. we never made much sense in
the first place and i went down on you in the wilderness
because at that altitude you have to go down
somewhere. you hel
reflections on firstsyou know what really makes
me sad is that i have no recollection
of our first kiss. i have no recollection
of the first time you tried to fuck me. my
memory stops where i walked into
the room in garters with my best friend and molly
rolled my eyes back while you
made my fingers snap and grasp
at musty sheets. what i do remember
is when i fell in love with
you. it was over several
short and long moments.
1. the water murmured softly
underneath the wood and underneath
our bodies. the rushing of our blood
seemed like too much,and so it calmed
down and pulsed gently like thump.
thump. thump. thump.
and you called me sweetheart and this is
what you said. "i hated you so much because
i was attracted to you. you are so beautiful.
so smart. so talented. i hated you so much."
and then i sang the same song for you
that had made others fall in love with me
but i never felt it the way that i did then.
my voice was almost shaking,
i got flowers oncei am lonely.
i received flowers once
and i placed them
in a vase til
the petals all browned
and turned to dust
on the glass of my bureau.
i have never gotten flowers since.
i spend my days
with a boy
whom i love far beyond reason
and he holds me in his arms
and holds me together.
i bite my nails
and pull my hair
over the moment when he
feels the disenchantment
fall over his body,
all clean lines
and smooth shapes,
and realises that leaving
the worst thing
the best thing.
i am lonely
and even with a hand to hold,
and even with a cloak of security
bunching around my shoulders
and hiding my thighs,
i feel my fingers grasping at empty air
because i am too ungratefully
trapped in my head
to remember that my love
is holding my hand
and reminding me more often
than anyone should need to
that i am loved.
Transformers: We Came in WarTransformers: We Came in War
Setting: Sometime during the Bay films
Characters: Optimus Prime
We came to this planet because ours was gone.
The quest for power consumed our home. The need for domination destroyed us. Still we live, and yet there is a piece in each of us that has been decimated forever. We will never recover what we have lost.
I look down upon this planet, and I wonder why we try.
It is evident by now that we have lost the capacity for peace. War follows in our wake. We came to retrieve the AllSpark, which has long since been lost, and we are still here. All that came of attempting to revive our planet was the relocation of the war from our planet of death to this planet of life. There is so much life on this planet. All of it we have sworn to protect. This is the promise we have made to them. But the promise would not need to have been made if we had never co
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