[x]

cumbersomei cannot say what i need to say,

there are many, many things we cannot talk about:

the military, its ploys,

its gunmetal toys;

the way a gap in the teeth

draws a crinkle like cellophane

to a face once filled

with green eyes and irish love;

the r's thrown deep into

the charles,

the dirty water in which

boys with lesser sense

might find themselves;

the greenery and celtic landscape;

and you,

entirely you,

you in full-

i cannot talk about you

because i miss you so much my heartache has a heartache

like acid reflux burning my body

and it is just so unbearably sad

to know

that none of this can be fixed

because in less than a

things i don't know about you that bother me thati wonder what it's like
to fall asleep beside you
in a post coital haze,
and to wake in the morning
to run to class.
do you wake me,
do you kiss my forehead,
do we make love again-
i don't know,
not yet.

and do you wet your toothbrush
before applying toothpaste,
oh,
tell me you don't leave the sink running,
it must get awfully tired.

and what do you dream of
when i lie next to you,
blissfully more than just a body;
what will you dream of
a year from now?
please tell me i can fit into
your big picture
as easily as i can fit into
your arms,
eternally.

sugar freetoday my stomach told me i got a letter from you.
it clenched and cursed,
seeing my name on an envelope with no stamp,
cursive writing and no return address.
i didn't know.

once i did though, my stomach swung
its angry fists and crowed,
I TOLD YOU SO.

it was right.

my hands were like stoplights
in a hurricane,
malfunctioning and saying stop
when i turn green,
shaking with each gust.

i don't want to read how you are
or if you still love me.
i don't want to feel anything
or see you in my mind's film reel,
now shorn and with glasses,
but worst,
in uniform.

it makes me swoon on my feet
and not in that lustful, romantic, 1950s way
but the kin

the vomiting crowd of coney islandthe destructive walls are shaded
in grey and i am remembering
every feeling i have forgotten-

i am terrified.

this is a city that never sleeps,
the bones of my chest thrumming
like taxi cabs in the streets,
my fingers shaking
in want for comfort and solace
and love.

i am not standing
in lorca's vomiting crowd-
i am his vomiting crowd,
looking high and low
and between my clenched fists
for catharsis and purification,
for the reason of this illness
pressed against my skin,
for the indefinable sickness
i drown in like bubbles of spit
day in and day out.

i fear the restraints
i've placed for myself,
that they may not be the

this is less of a love poem and more of athere is something to be said
about resisting the temptation
to start out with a bang.

the hallway of your neck
has never lost its scent
and it's something, i swear,
i swear, i can never forget

because it's something surreal
to wake up while you're asleep
and feel you pull me closer
til our faces almost meet-

but please,
hold onto that almost,
hold onto it like stardust.

you need to touch me in a whisper
because it's been too long
since i've felt the hand of someone
who actually meant it,
someone who actually meant something

and i'm so glad, my god,
i'm on my knees
i am praying to(o,) my god
that we won't burn out so qu

barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-
you, in the crowd,
the one panicking about reading
or the mess at home
or the sheer volume of people
pressing into you like corners;

you,
the woman who birthed me into this world
through hours of agony
as though that wasn't enough
because doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,
i've put you through countless
sleepless nights
warped into months of agony
you never asked for;

and you, oh, mostly you.
you, because as hard as i've beaten my own heart into the wall,
and as deep as i let you bury mine,
i know, somehow, i managed to do the same to you.

yo

emotion, embodiedthere are things
living in me
that bring the floor
to my knees-
powers like concrete
and steel,
fierce infrastructure
of my bones
filled with something
like fire,
or smoke.

i have been
holding my breath
for so long
that i am scared
to let my body
breathe,
or give vessels,
these things
living in me,
the means to
become something
when i
myself
can't.

i pray to god,
a being unseen,
that i will
kill off these things
living inside me;
instead,
all i manage
to do
is kill off
myself.

listen honey, here comes your mani hear your gaslight anthem
playing in my head
on repeat
on repeat
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
home.

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,
th

the mat that clung to my backmy story was that
love knew me,
& i knew love;
that we embraced,
our limbs interwoven
like the fabric
of the universe.

it has been two weeks,
& i have two freckles
like tooth marks
right where you left
a bruise,
that last time
i saw you,
the last time
i thought maybe
you could love me
as i am.

the sadness of how
mistaken i was
fills me up now
& blossoms like a flower,
hot tea like twigs & branches
within my bones.

my story has changed thus:
i loved
i lost
i fell
apart.

i hope,
more than the number of wishes
made on the stars tonight,
that one day,
you can be in a relationship
with me
instead of my sickness;

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 ser

why jk rowling embodies depression as dementorsi wanted to talk to you about happiness
but i don't think anyone in this room is qualified to talk about something
they probably don't know much about, and
how it spends most of its time
seeping out of your skin in whatever ways it can
because maybe your body is too toxic for it.

that's when you start having your moment.

the moment when you're not sure
how to be alive,
when strings become nooses
in the stars of your eyes,
thin objects mock your bones
and the instruments of your heart
act like knives thirsting for blood.

pavement shatters underfoot.
the cracks become teeth,
sharp and unfriendly as you pass;
they're grey, great

go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.

look-
it's not one of those sad, suicidal stories. i mean, if i believed in suicide in the way that means i could do it, then yeah, it would be. but i don't, and i guess you're kind of lucky for that because now you can go to sleep with a clear conscience.

i won't ever tell you about how many pages and books and scraps of paper and unsent text messages and notes on the backs of my hands i've written for you, or how inarticulate you were when you wanted to say how you felt. i won't ever tell you how i wished for a few words that could tell me that i was loved, even a little, and i sure as fuck won

centre for psychological healthit is three days
until march falls again,
false promises of spring
kissing the air
until it begins again
for winter;

three hours
until i feel my heartbeat
find its way
into the oceans
my blood spills,
poetry,
across porcelain
and skin
mirroring it;

three minutes
until i shift,
unbearable,
in a crimson chair
that begs for me releasing;

three seconds
until i swallow,
a bird,
sticking bones,
and pray for a
tooth of glass,
a jaw of metal, of
sharp,
kiss me,
an instant,
the way
you
once did.

a note in my pockethow
do i go
about releasing
a thin mark,
an invisible fishing line,
from a heart
so unknowingly caught

he calls me little
until i feel
my most near to human,
a drum in my stomach
with a tightening skin;

my heart does not
follow his song,
but i feel his fingers
tangle its veins
with every mention
of smallness.

i am the telephone wire
strung between
these brick buildings,
connecting
without intention
the two spheres
of our lives.

i stretch my fingers
to snap it,
yet fear the whiplash
of (e)motion
that may or may not
sink me to my knees.

instead,
i burn a small effigy,
pinecones singeing
as makeshift hands,

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More from *ohsostarryeyed

indian summersleepy
sleepless
nights
take their toll
and i start wondering if you're drinking
and feeling stars sink from the sky
to merge with the waves of your stomach
undulations with sparkles of poison
and i wonder
if you're warmer, like copper
or if your arm is snaked
all ribbons
around another girl's waist
or if your teeth
white moonlight
glitter the way they do
when you're sober
and smiling at me
from sleep
or if you even
think
of me,
just for
a
moment

it's hard
to pull away
when every night,
you fold me,
copied paper,
in your arms
until the morning
separates us
again

i will always
pause
in the moments
you say,

on an envelopewhy do my d's and l's look like yours when i write your name?
it's just been a little carousel,
spinning in pirouettes,
turrets,
neverending,
in my mind all day.

all i know is i'm glad i don't love you.
i don't know why you aren't relationship material-
in all honesty, you are.

i don't know why you treat me like your girlfriend-
kissing my forehead,
holding me gently,
touching me sweetly,
asking to see me,
sixty miles out of the way
in a city i can fall in love,
with no promise of sex-

all i know is i'm glad i don't love you,
& i hope it stays.

learning to forget how to readi hate it a little
with my bottom lip
pulled between your teeth
it's like moonlight,
the only light by which
i really see you

i don't know how to think
(about you, anything, this)
and everything you do
is balanced on a scale,
waiting for so much as a breath
to knock it from its centre

(if you don't ask me
to come over, if you
greet me with a television
or hands in my jeans, if
you wait for me before i
leave you in the morning, if
you kiss me upon awakening
or sleeping or as i drift
between the boundaries of
here and with you,)

i am just caught in the tides
the ebb and the flow
as i fail continually
to understand
that

to know you, all wrongi don't know
what it means
when i say
i must be feeling
the wrong static,
or that i am thinking
of your hands,
shapes of clay
used to
shape the clay
of my white skin,
all wrong.
i just know
i need to believe you
when you said
what we are doing
is wrong
(copy of a copy of a copy)
and we can only do
something wrong
for so long
before the tongues
of fire
wrap tight
round our wrists,
separate,
with consequence.

perpetuation of a speciesi feel like sex
warm and sticky
and close and sometimes
a little dark with shame
or secrecy
but that doesn't make me
unwholesome
or immoral
that just makes me normal
and not just human
it makes me universal
a constant
a perpetuation
and no one can look at me
with true displeasure
because the one who did
would be the one who
was never here.

centre for psychological healthit is three days
until march falls again,
false promises of spring
kissing the air
until it begins again
for winter;

three hours
until i feel my heartbeat
find its way
into the oceans
my blood spills,
poetry,
across porcelain
and skin
mirroring it;

three minutes
until i shift,
unbearable,
in a crimson chair
that begs for me releasing;

three seconds
until i swallow,
a bird,
sticking bones,
and pray for a
tooth of glass,
a jaw of metal, of
sharp,
kiss me,
an instant,
the way
you
once did.

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leonardwood

by *ohsostarryeyed, Jan 28, 2013, 4:50:01 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

i had missed you before i'd met you;
i am missing you before you've left
&today you are gone.

there is nothing,
no drink nor organic acid nor chemical high
to dim the lights on the epilleptic flashes
of love i can't let go,

the panic i blindly follow
as your airplanes leave from boston
&chicago and turn from wings to wheels
as a bus takes you three hours further
to a war zone in missouri.

you told me you loved me
as you vanish for nine months
of the next year.
you promise letters to make up
for the fear you impressed upon us,
love i never let leave,
an empty room i could never stay;
you promised me words
&a heart a thousand miles west
&hopes through two letters a month
that we will not be as broken

as the mirrors i look into,
trying to find what my face looks like
when i know i am wrong.
i want to see the beauty
that men who love me see;
i want to hold onto you
while promising myself to another,
much nearer.

i love you until it hurts
i love you until i can't any more
and i love you still.
leaving you is an empty room
&i can never be alone.

leonardwoodby *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2013 *ohsostarryeyed

a fort in missouri
i pronounce is misery for a single reason
i don't know how to do love

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

~BMWYSP Feb 23, 2013 Professional Writer

_{"as the mirrors i look into,
trying to find what my face looks like
when i know i am wrong.
i want to see the beauty
that men who love me see;
i want to hold onto you
while promising myself to another,
much nearer."

lovely.}

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*ohsostarryeyed Feb 28, 2013

thank you!

Reply

~BMWYSP Feb 28, 2013 Professional Writer

You are welcome, dear. I actually think these may have drifted into my subconscious while I was sleeping.

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Mar 6, 2013

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~MariaTala Feb 20, 2013

_{this is beautiful.}

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*ohsostarryeyed Feb 28, 2013

thank you so much, i love your work!!

Reply

~DamagedHomewrecker Feb 9, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

the first and the last stanzas are my favorite; they nestle in the hole of my heart

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 28, 2013

they ruin mine but i'm glad they help you <3

Reply

~BlueSteelEyes Feb 2, 2013 Student General Artist

So perfect. Believe me when I say I know how you are feeling, and how you captured the essence of it here

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 6, 2013

it's rough. thank you, though

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