[x]

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

alpengloweverything hard-kept in the heart is falling onto paper. each word so well-fought to be kept within the chest becomes a snowflake from november skies, but the winds are unseasonably warm and a fire is kindled inside each bone in place of a bitter chill.

there are ten thousand things i can never tell you.

the way that wars are fought, i wage battles among my selves to keep the quiet. you will never hear my voice, too soft like the pillow beneath your head each time our bodies find each other, say how my breath becomes a porch swing when we touch and i sway.

i can never call you by any name, given at birth or given by heart. you will neve

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

preemptive breakup poemif anyone ever tells you your sadness isn't physical,
show them the ache in your bones,
the raw skin on your arms or wrists or hips or thighs,
the imprint of your foetal body on your mattress from the days you couldn't bear to leave.

and you see this?
this is what hurt looks like.
i want you to look closer, lean in a little until you can feel the sadness on my breath
and i want you to watch my eyes. count how often they blink and count how many of them are forcing back words i still can never say.
i don't want you to miss a second of how you make me feel.

i want to be what keeps you up at night
i want to be the reason you can't eat

wasting usi want you, ok
i want you to be on your knees
all scraped and red and raw
like you're a child again
because that's all you ever
were
i want you to be aching
the way i've been aching
since the last rays of summer
said goodbye to us,
goodbye to us
and i want you to never forget
that just because
you don't remember my birthday,
that doesn't mean
you'll ever,
ever
forget the feel of my skin
on yours
for the first time
and that someday
this memory will stop hurting.
it never will,
and i promise you this:
every time it crosses your mind-
while you wait at the bus stop,
during a chemistry exam,
the next time a girl touche

playing godi am the last paramedic you want to respond to your call.

by no means am i inept at my job- i am, in fact, the best in my precinct. my problem is sometimes i think i'm god.

the people who are drains on society - the welfare collectors, the addicts, the elderly, the people who wronged me in high school or remind me of the people who wronged me in high school; the people who cost me taxes? oops, i made a mistake. i'm sorry, mrs. doe, but john didn't make it. our team failed to correctly assess and promptly address his condition. our condolences.

i have let hundreds die on my watch. just seen the spasms stop, the light leave their eyes.

write what hurtsi'm here to tell you
about fire and living
& how both burn even if you ignore them

it's not about what feels good
it's about what doesn't
cornering what hurts
and exposing it
really displaying it
pedestal on high
for what it is
and not what it pretends to be

you are not living
until you hurt
you can't be alive
if all you know is comfort

comfort is only a sign
that you are doing what you know
it is admittance of limitation
because you are human
and only know so much
and it's agonising to think
that you can be comfortable with that
and not want to reach out
and touch every thing you find
and read every book you see
an

the first poem i wrote since i told you i love youthe star-soaked stains
that covered our nudity
gives way at last
to a tequila sunrise,
so low in the sky;

it's still bright enough
to sting my eyes,
and yet i can't bring myself
to hate it.

your body next to mine,
every effort is made
to move a heavy limb
closer
because any space
we have
is space i don't want.

i am sometimes humbled
by my feelings,
the way they swell
in my throat
just how the ocean
tastes the shore.

there is always something new
to find hidden in my heart,
summoned by my words,
or the salt of your skin
wearing like wind on shale
against mine.

i don't think i can ever tell you
i love you enough.

i

virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lust
and a little more to a person than a label.
you can try to sum me up in five words or less and you'll find those words,
but you won't be able to reduce me to them.
you can't turn me into something that can be thrust,
curse-like,
down the grapevine
when there's something more to me than the colour of my eyes or the size of my chest.

and that's something we could all do with remembering.
but this is the culture we were born into.
where the length of your hair is more important than the sincerity of your words,
and nothing matters as much as the kardashians' latest scandal or talking some hot c

denial can only stretch so farwhen asked if i am
in love, i shall say, no. well,
maybe a little.

across, a crossi like the things that go unspoken
between you and me,
like the night we spent on the beach
lying cramped on a shitty, five-dollar walgreens towel
with another frayed over us,
and hearing the string
of intoxicated teenagers walk by and say,
look
they're watching the stars at night.

and no matter how much that girl,
clearly filled to her brim
with vodka as she tripped along the sand,
lacked eloquence,
she spoke something more beautiful
than a van gogh painting.

we were romance, we were god,
and i know i must believe in god
because of the feeling building in my bones
when i see those "jesus saves" signs,
black with white let

bulldozeri am a poet -
or at least,
i was.

(i am lying.)

i tell myself
i have never wanted anything
more than you,
but i have:

i have loved with my whole heart,
every inch of my body,
every ounce of my soul;

i have taken time and care
with my eraser,
rubbing out the distance
between where my heart lives
and where my body lies in unrest.

i actually let myself believe you
for a couple of seconds,
did you know that?
i felt like you loved me.

i didn't want to get up
and i didn't want to move out of the rain,
i just wanted to sit in your car
in these clothes
forever
because that night was the last time i'll see you.

two days later

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,

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 look to letting you goi hope i ruined
your day
like a smudge
of ink-

i like reminding you
of the things
i am sure you proudly
keep hidden,
beneath shrouds
of black,
like clouds
and that
ache my heart,
so loud
when i try
to sleep.

i have
bookmarked my skin
where you last
touched me
so that i may
open the pages
and read us
again
when i feel a little
less sick.

all i want is to look across
a span of space-
a floor, a bed,
the breath between
a face-
and see another
holding me like light
within warm eyes.

it is likely
we will not make it
through the night;
in this case,
i hope that,
with my last,
fast breath,
i learn to love

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More from *ohsostarryeyed

reminiscencesometimes i wonder if
we only tangled in the dark
because you are ashamed
of me and any pair of eyes
but your own
seeing me;
until i reflect like a mirror
or a pond
over the casualties of copies
and cutting paper,
and revert to the times
you pulled me close
in the snow and cold-edged ledges
of a parking garage,
wrapping me in a web
of warmth and you
and you
and you-

i know things got a little messy
between the two of us,
hearts and copy machines,
lamination and lamentation,
but together
there was a beauty
that shined brighter
than the moon on broken glass.

it's not enough
to say that i miss you.

the tendrils of my

how can someone like you want someone like meis it with heart
you wish to start
a tangle of you and me,
not just of skin
or place within
to just feel less lonely;

and how on earth
could i be worth
that space you wish to fill
for a body, tight
no vacancies at night
i fear it stays empty still.

i take anxiety medication for recreationit's about time
to write a story
about a failed
love affair-
of the heart, or
of the skin, or
of the mind-
dissipated, nonetheless.

the plot line would
enumerate the ways
in which the girl
torments herself
with theories and hypotheticals,
what-ifs and maybes;
worst of all are
what-could-have-beens.

the girl would never
tell you, the audience,
you, the reader,
you the listener
(you, asleep in your seat,
you, failing to read between the lines,
you, hands over your ears)
any of this.

she would not even pretend
that there was a struggle,
internal seeking desperately
to make it out,
and would leave
in peace,
able to s

on casting hope asidethe very ground we stand on is unseen. i know very little, but i know that your eyes are green, and that it never fails to strike me like a blow of lightning each time i find them so close to mine.

your father is a carpenter and your mother cuts hair. you are on your way to becoming a neuroscientist and have a fascination with shoulder musculature. you live further away from me than i deem comfortable, and you have two brothers, one of whom is an exact replica of you, five years in the past. i find this endearing but because you knew i would, i refuse to tell you.

i also will not tell you how hard it is for me to fall for someone as eas

when feelings grow big enough to have scaryi can recognise you
by the shape of your back:
the valleys around your spine,
the broad slopes
of pale land,
features like plateaus
and bookended by the hills
of your shoulders.

it is nothing
compared to the feeling
of strength you give
when i am held,
your arms strapped to
those hills like dense rivers,
rapids paced like silver,
catching me in their
tightly-woven basket.

the moon looks different
when i try to fall asleep
without you.
i feel the stars' breath
lonelier sighs
as the space in my bed
grows daunting.

soon, the breath of summer
will tickle our toes
and sink us near the sea.
i pray each night to my god
th

dear alaina.dear alaina,

i am not being passive-aggressive. i am not avoiding confrontation or arguments or sensitive subjects so that i won't get upset: i'm writing a letter that i can't imagine you'll see, explaining to you everything that i need you to know.

i'm sorry i'm not better. i'm sorry that i'm not trying. i'm sorry, but i can't, not now. i wish you could understand, without any fear or worry, that i need to destroy myself before i can get better. it's like i'm a phoenix, needing to catch fire and turn to ash before i can be reborn. i need to be the biggest source of pain and misery in my life; i can't let anyone else have the power to

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[x]

romanticism is such bullshit

by *ohsostarryeyed, Jan 29, 2013, 9:22:18 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

i 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
again
because you will never leave again-
i want you to love me like flames love oxygen:

blindly,
endlessly,
essentially.

romanticism is such bullshitby *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2013 *ohsostarryeyed

much like dA's new submission page

fuck this fuck you fuck me

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~BlueSteelEyes Feb 2, 2013 Student General Artist

this is really good.

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*ohsostarryeyed Feb 6, 2013

thanks :]

Reply

~SteffenC-itsjustme Feb 1, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

"i want you to love me like flames love oxygen:

blindly,
endlessly,
essentially."

Love eeeverything about this, and the poem in generel. But especially the first line of the segment I've highlighted.

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 6, 2013

thank you so much!

Reply

~SteffenC-itsjustme Feb 6, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

No, thank y o u. I love to read beautiful things and even more so, I love it, when I learn a new way of saying "I want you to love me like blankblankblank" and you gave me that. Awesome.

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*ohsostarryeyed Mar 6, 2013

:] i'm glad!

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Mood: Suggestive

~MadisonHelen Jan 31, 2013

god damn it woman

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 6, 2013

i love you ok

Reply

~MadisonHelen Feb 8, 2013

not as much as i love you bbygurl

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*ohsostarryeyed Mar 6, 2013

pfffffffffffffft

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