kiss me like i never left;
kiss me like you never sinned;
kiss me if you love me;
i'll kiss you with my heart.
a set of six word poems.
overwhelming wordsthere's a lot you can do with words
but sometimes i forget how to do any.
and sometimes i look at a keyboard
and see so many words that come together
from just some of those letters
and there's so much to write
that i don't write at all.
and sometimes i think
i drank deeply from the elixir of life
when i was too young
and when i drank i only drank the words
and i spilled them out in the morning
because the night was too silent to break it.
i wonder if the silence i've kept
is as big as the words i've written.
i'm not writing to be censored
it's not like i do that to myself
when the words come rolling
and i don't let them out,
when i'm running down the street
but don't make a sound,
it's not like i'm afraid to be loud.
i hope you can tell by the heat in my eyes
that my gaze turns steady as soon as i lie.
i hope you know that when i write
and my diction turns from eloquent and quaint
to fucking filthy and raging
that i'm finding myself,
even if that takes years off my life
by looking at
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
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
for those who want to be in loveyou want to fall in love
hard enough to break your bones and
lighten your feet
lighten your heart
so softly that the butterflies you feel
pattering with their gossamer wings
beneath the cage of your ribs
and the breath,
blue in the summer,
can kiss you and the monarchs
as sweetly as your love
and her lips.
you dream of them at night.
silken like clean bedsheets,
familiar as your favourite chair
when you curl up with
a mug of herbal tea.
you feel at home
with her body curled in yours,
only able to sleep
with her skin under your fingers
scenting the blankets
with something no perfume
could ever mirror.
you write love letters
you dream emptily
unless she is there.
you want to fall in love
the way the gods drink ambrosia,
you want to treat her
better than their nectar,
sweeter than honeybees
and their summer-sticky feet.
you want a love beyond poetry,
from winter flurries
to springtime rosebuds
to summer sweet lemonade
to autumnal red leaves u
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.
two days shy (i'm so sorry)two days hang
like bodies from the gallows.
they swing in fetid winds
and i see myself
i have reaped your wounds
after sewing them shut,
sowing them carefully
for two days shy
of a year.
i feel our blood mixing
and it feels like the hurt
you only have after a
in the gardenyou are breath in my bones,
buoyant in the blue bay
outside of your house.
you are in the garden
and i am watching from the window
as you watch me back.
i am wearing nothing
but a long strand of pearls
and pink underwear,
and you cannot keep your mouth closed.
i like it better that way
when we kiss.
i like to feel your body
forget how it is to take in air
at a regular pace,
i like to feel its
it makes me feel like
your soul is dancing
when it meets mine.
inner spacei know i can't go back
to who i was
too many seasons,
too many waves
have crashed on the
and i need to look
at myself - hard -
to see that
parts of me
have been eroded
and my shape
life grows on trees
but i do not.
my branches are tired,
my limbs heavy.
it is all i can do
to grasp at the leaves.
i let the bark scrape my fingers;
i lick the wounds
and taste the blood,
hot and metallic,
on my tongue.
when i look up,
it's not for too long;
i grow dizzy at the great heights
the stars play in the sky.
i need to remember
that outer space is also
my inner space.
i need to remember that
i can't be who i was
please, i say to the heavens;
i am swallowing whole galaxies
to prove my worth
and earn my keep
in this body.
the heart never forgetsI cannot remember where I fell in love;
I can remember where I hated you--
the hallway fluorescent,
white cinderblock walls,
shiny behind alcohol-glazing--
and I can remember where I begged forgiveness--
4am silence finally falling
in the weekend dorms,
frantic fingers dialing your number
but I cannot remember where I fell in love;
I remember the first night we spent together--
we muffled our voices as I beat you in cards,
you pressed yourself against the wall
and I pressed myself against you;
you missed a meeting in the morning
because we forgot to sleep--
but I cannot remember where I fell in love;
the days surrounding your birthday,
where I stayed in your apartment
and shared a bed with a boy
whom I did not let myself see I loved;
the sun filtered,
through the thinly clouded glass;
the nights where the floodlights
thrashed between the blinds
until your body became a barrier
for my shaded eyes;
I cannot remember where I fell in love;
but as soon as the
weighted down1. I am sixteen, suddenly.
I have grown up without anyone
telling me. My car keys rest heavily in
my palm. Each new college I hear about
rests heavily on my shoulders. I am
not sure how much longer I can take this,
all this extra weight of responsibilities, of choices,
of the future I’m not sure I want to have.
My skin feels stretched across my body
in places that don’t really make sense.
I still feel too big in every bad way—I’m
afraid I always will.
2. My first boyfriend tells me he
thinks I must have bits of the
universe inside of me. I try not
to get offended: I know he means to say
that kissing me is like kissing stars,
and that I hold the secrets of creation
inside my soul, but all I can think about
is how huge the universe is.
3. He breaks up with me at night.
For hours, I lean against my truck in
the driveway and look at the sky.
Stars are cold and distant,
I realize. The universe is big
4. Someone in my philosophy class tries to tell me
Cliches I Have Datedi.
Anna collected stardust
like pennies, except
pennies are worth something.
Claire had ink
running through her veins; dead,
from an unsterilized needle.
Robin had birdbones
strung together on windchimes.
Sarah’s eyes were always
to the sky, and never
Lizbeth took my breath away
with every punch to the stomach.
Rosalie had too many things
in her ribcage; emotional adrenaline
triggered her arrhythmia.
Emily left me
for a boy with starrier freckles.
I am one cat away
from a stereotype, or one girl
closer to a happy ending.
a study in absolutionyou kiss my fingers like you don’t know what
these hands have done, who these hands have done:
i am always afraid you will get tired of me, grow disgusted at
these scars, at these traces of other people dusting my skin
like a bruise that’s permanently tender, but right
when i think you will leave, you find another
part of my body to forgive.
moments of being awakehearing from you
gives me road rash
the kind the drunk man
who touched the shoulders of women
in long, lingering lashes
gets when he's thrown
from the bar
it slaps me in the face
harder than winter wind
after a night spent
alone in a bed
or not alone in a bed
i wonder if you wonder
if i'm sleeping with somebody
if i'm in love and happy
if i'm alone and miserable and
aching for someone like you
because i admit i do-
i spend some time
wondering about you.
what i know about love, a list1. It hurts. Goddamn, it hurts like hell. It hurts like a dull, constant ache you can’t shake. It hurts when he’s sitting next to her and listening to what she has to say or tying her shoes or playing with her binder because you know that’ll never be you. It hurts when he’s sitting next to you and smiling and listening to what you say because you know it’ll never be more than that. It hurts when he’s sitting across the room with his friends and he’s laughing because look how smoothly his life flows without you in it.
2. If you’re in a room with fifty other people who are talking to each other, you’ll still be able to pick out his laugh.
3. There are lots of different kinds of love, and lots of times people mistake something as love when it’s really not. That’s okay, because a lot of people think that you can’t really name love and it’s beyond any mere word or definition or something. I think it’s easy t
i don't have a dog1. i get up at ten.
this is an accomplishment.
by eleven, i’m awake enough to miss you.
to be honest, that part never goes away—
but eleven is when the typewriter grows fangs
and threatens to swallow everything i am
if i don’t put a name to the feeling. even the dog’s
tail does not wag. he keeps watching the door.
he will not even touch his food until the sun has
set as deep as possible. he is giving you every
chance to come back.
i try to tell him there’s no use,
that you will never come back.
but dogs don’t understand things like that,
don’t believe in the concept of ‘never come back’.
they believe in the sound of a key turning a lock
and the inevitable stomping of feet on the welcome mat
no matter how many times they’ve heard
the car engine start and the crunch of gravel as it pulls away.
2. this must be what missing you feels like.
i have lived lifetimes in the minutes i keep breathing.
i keep breathing. this is an accompl
.in the night
time you are
skin and stitches
you up with a
purer love, until
the morning comes,
the sun runs his
teeth through your
seams again, splits
a litany of things better left unknownI wonder if we had a time machine, how many people
would go back in time and how many people would go forward,
and if that would say anything about us or not. I know
some people are afraid of the butterfly effect: when I was
eight, a girl named Alexis stopped me from a catching
a monarch, told me I wouldn’t like the way I looked
if I had its colors dusting my skin.
I wonder if God ever stands in front of a mirror
and realizes how amazing it is that He can see Himself
when millions of people would kill to be able to.
I wonder if vampires ever get lonely when
they’re sleeping and if they ever get
self-conscious because they can’t see themselves
in a mirror. I wonder if vampires ever ask people if they’re
pretty. I wonder if God thinks He’s pretty
or if pretty’s just a human-made concept and Moses has never
had to look God in the face and say, “People love You—
that’s all that matters.”
I wonder if you can lie in heaven. I wonder
It Never HappenedHave you ever stood
In the rain
And let it pour
Upon your skin
It washing away
All of your pain
And all of your suffering
And cleansing your heart
And your mind
And creating you new
As if the past
And the troubles it contained
suicidal.it’s like she’s toeing the edge of a cliff and
she’s smiling and she’s deadly
and you’re standing too far back to save her
and it’s just too late because she’s about
if you want a list of reasons not to commit suicide,
here it is.
1. you have two dogs that will miss you.
they were wagging their tails and smiling
last night when they took you to the hospital
and i couldn’t find the words to tell them
that they should be quiet.
2. you have a car that you cried when you got
and you roll the windows down and blast music
whenever you pick me up from school
and i’m sorry i never sang along, but this is just to say
that you have things that still make you feel alive.
3. you have a sister that is nice about fifteen percent of the time
and loves you the rest of it. trust me, she does.
she does not remember the last time she hugged you
but she wrote about you when her teacher asked her
who her hero was.
4. mom should
.i know an angel
tired of holding
up his halo, says
he's thinking of
trading it in for
(and i'd do the same but the boss says, you're not goin' anywhere bitch)
From the Rappers, To the RockersWhen did the word“rap” become equivalent to uneducated?
When was hip-hop only reserved for those “ghetto” impolite,
How many of us associate the 808 drums, the slang, and the rhythm
with no good, hood rats who have their pants below their ankles?
Why is it a sin to enjoy such tragedy, such emotion and such beauty
all composed into one, rambunctious, ignorant piece of music?
Sex, money, women and booze,
seems like the only things that rappers know how to use.
But hey, no hate, because I know it's real,
it's the struggle in the hood, so we know how y'all feel.
It started from ages, of days that were black,
when those bored kids hardly had a penny in their lunch sacks.
With the pain that came with living, by not fitting in,
by not liking rock, or music reserved for museums.
It morphed into pain, and embodied “the struggle”
a term tossed around, now we use it to describe our troubles.
When the bass drops, and the words flow,
it's like a hurric