when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
find it in your
to feel a little something
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
uncovered by your lips,
i find poems under my hands.
i write strophes and lines
imprinted on your skin
when i move my fingers away.
i have so much to
i could give you so much
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shared your self
with someone else
and been safe-
you would have been
revelations in the mudi only want to fall in love
if someone is there
to fall with me.
i want to jump from high places
and pretend i'm flying,
i'm a bird, i'm light enough at-fucking-last
for the air to catch me,
and the harsh grounds beneath me?
can't touch this.
but i'm earthbound
and parachutes will not work
if you do not open them,
and i am just so sick
of feeling like maybe,
becoming an abstract painting
on the rocks below, would be enough...
but there is something beating in my chest.
i'm very afraid of what it is.
and i don't know a lot,
like the size of the universe.
or why you sought solace in the south.
or how i came to be in this crater that swallowed me whole;
but i do know the second you told me
you felt the same for me like i did for you,
something in my universe shifted.
part of my soul went to georgia...
and i began to climb.
the purpose of life is to knock you on your ass
so you have to do something with it to get back up.
i don't know about you,
but i'm pretty fuckin' tired of feelin
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
and hear every sound you can
because enough is never enough
is never enough is always
an open letter to a rekindled relationshipwe have travelled thousands of miles;
we have felt spite and fear for diminished feelings;
we have played this game for far too long.
last night we missed hearing others' poetry
to make our own.
i was not afraid of skin,
and you were not afraid to feel.
we were born with instinct for a reason:
realising what you want is half the battle.
my other half is hesitation-
my other half is you.
i still swell with emotions my therapist
can't help me label
when i remember how you said
you weren't over me.
and how we joined again,
with an interim year,
and a new understanding of emotion
adding to and balancing the physical.
last night i put my skin in your hands;
i gave it with trust.
i left my nerves in my clothes and i shed them,
on the floor,
and spent time with initiation and impulse.
the bruises on my throat a result of passions,
i smile as i shield them from familial eyes.
the weight of a year has opened my bones
and a heart that is ready to
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;
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
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.
you left, and i left two weeks after.
every night was a terror;
every morning was a letdown.
i ached constantly
and threw myself into books
like they would become oxygen masks until i could breathe on my own again.
and here's the thing, you know,
because you would knock my legs out from under me again and again.
"let's fall back in love," you'd say,
and i would fall to
first weekend and realisationsyou begin to talk
because talking means that
someone else can't
&you start to realise
(as most girls do)
that you have a boyfriend
he's not just a boyfriend;
he's your boyfriend
&he's not just better than
anyone else in the world
he's better than
anything else in the world
&you would trade years off your life
to spend a little longer with him
or to see him smile when he's sad
or to feel his face in your hair
the way he does when he hugs you
&you can't feel it
because right now he's too far away
but distance is only the space between
point a and point b
between you&between me
&if you give it just a little more time
you'll realise nothing has changed
and the disjointed rhythms
your heart beats out like a drum
sticks like a song in your head
the moment you watch recognition
hit his eyes
when you walk in.
the commutei keep your kiss
under my bed:
i won't lose it
just because you aren't here.
i will hesitate in the spaces
between the weeks
we are together,
and we are
i will write you letters
and gaps and commas
when my head stops spinning
and my pride takes a bow
to the lion of my heart,
and feel the stinging air
seep out of its balloon.
put your (love) affairs in order, dear
and find me under your blankets;
i want the places i know best
to be the ones made of skin,
secretly tucked away
in the crook of your elbow
where my body rests, or
behind your ear,
like a pencil-
i want you to write me words
that make me start to hum.
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,
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 chick into bed.
i'm nineteen. i understand. but i'm frequently finding myself writhing in my own reassurance that i exist.
my name is melissa, i am a liberal, college-going female who doesn't remember what her own house looks like but remembers her childhood telephone number
and i'm not sure if that's ok. is it normal, am i the only one in this goddamn world wh
a thorough submissioni have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my hesitations are little more
than bad habits,
filed somewhere between
biting my nails and always saying i'm sorry.
the expectation of the winds
blowing softer til they ceased
ended with your mouth on mine;
the nerves fraying from fear
have been tended to with needle and thread;
and the water i so wiklfully wouldn't touch
feels warmer as it inches
like your hands
up my ankles to my bare knees.
i have found my heart-
it has put itself into this.
my stomach turns the ocean calm
when i think of the messes i'll make,
and the sewing you will stitch.
and i'm terrified
like nightmares that don't dissolve upon waking
for the ending weeks of winter
when you leave for the great missouri banks.
my heart is found,
put in this,
and slipping and mending
and messes commonplace,
i am finally feeling
the warmth the rest of this brings,
the fire i'd fought so hard
for no other reason
than to stifle our joy.
if people didn't filter their emotions and justthrowing yourself on
floors doesn't fix anything,
but it sure seems to.
bipolar IIa week is spent
in throes of excitability,
irritation, unstoppable words,
and ideas with wings of their own-
they soar in their preternatural flight
without a second's notice
and meander along separate currents.
sleep is an elusive,
fought for so ruthlessly,
only to have it slip away,
mere hours later.
i am icarus, resin-winged in thought
and flying til my fingers can
brush the sun.
i am icarus, resin-winged in thought
and watching my feathers drop
until my body
is subject once more
to the relentless rules of gravity.
hitting the dirt
hurts more every time-
physics has no mercy for bruised bones.
refusal to meet my mother's gaze,
to speak when spoken to,
and to move from the cave of my bedroom
i know how the sun feels
when it sinks below the earth,
and the struggle of the moon
as it thrashes to rise.
the endless circle
from night and day
grows so tiresome that sometime,
it will just
constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-
i was crying-
when you walked down my stairs
for the last time.
you were to spend the night-
you lived hours away-
until you told me
you couldn't do this
i was fine-
you were just a constellation-
until your words
forced images of my last love
before my mind's eye.
i cried before you-
i hadn't cried in months-
but i didn't cry for you.
in retrospect, as you closed my door-
it was the last time-
my only thought is
why didn't we fuck
before saying goodbye?
my dead gay brother becomes memore and more i am becoming an invisible monster.
i can't cry without an audience
i am willing to bend and bend and bend and
to just get a little
love love love lovelvoe lvoelve love love love
i will do anything for you if you just tell me you love me
i am a nobody
with backbreaking pains to become something beautiful
and if i can't have that
i want to be invisible
i want to be nothing
oh how i wish it wasn't so
as nothing as i am
i want you to love me.
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-
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 quick this time,
i'm too tired to bear new scars
i just want you to love me
but that's not something i could ever ask.
just some time maybe,
i know that no august moon can watch us forever
and keep us warm,
and no constellation can teach me everything
i've ever needed to know.
but everything ugly i ever saw about you
and everything unflattering?
it's gone like the magic we
go to sleep for the love of godi kind of feel like ripping my face off.
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't ever say that when you managed to pull a few words together for some girl you haven't even touched, well, i won't ever say that all i feel like doing now is unravelling the skin on my arms, down to the bones, and watch as rivers of red fall out of me like stars.
maybe i'd be beautiful enough for you then. i
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 easy to fall for as you. i resist with every inch of tension in my skin to feel the fire that alights in my belly when you remove the space we both painfully know is present between us.
i snap myself like an elastic band to a colder, lonelier place to keep hope offshore, drifting
you're a series of unconnected thoughtssometimes i wonder
if it's really true--
if history really does just
and now we're stuck in its loop where
you're holding everything back
and i'm holding everything in.
and there's nothing to do,
but hope for the best
or at least something better.
but for now, i just wonder
if there's anyone else
who misses quite as much
as i do.
it's never enough to remember,
but it's always too much
these are the last things i'll say before i'm goneIf I had to give a name to what I'm feeling I would just call it disappearing. Because it's exactly like the way that you can know everything about someone one day and nothing the next. It's the quick death love has that leaves you wanting more or wanting it back in the best and worst of ways.
If I had to explain I would say this feeling is something like standing outside of your door at four in the morning, even though I know I shouldn't be here, wearing the same wrinkled clothes I had on the day before, wanting nothing more than to beg to come home, but knowing better, because following the motions isn't really the best follow through.
I won't admit how much I miss you I can't, but I can tell you this.
The thing about disappearing is that it doesn't stop me from wanting to be completely impossible to forget. And maybe that's a bit of an anomaly, but I've never made much sense to begin with anyway.
And sure, we're all different in the same ways, but I want to be differen
the last sentence I started like thisI wonder if you're still breathing
in the same pattern that you used to
and if your life just picked up
as it was before in a way that
makes me insignificant
I wonder if there's someone new
if she speaks in complete sentences
and means it
when she says
she loves you.
I wonder if you're doing better
and if you'll get it right this time.
but I don't really care.
That's the difference
between now and before,
I couldn't forget you
I barely remember you.
i'll keep you like a secret.There are a lot of things I can't tell you.
Not because I'm keeping secrets locked behind my teeth or because I'm afraid I'll say something you don't want to hear. This isn't like the last time or the time before. It's simply because I'll never have the exact right words to explain all the ways you make my heart rise and expand and skip a beat.
There aren't enough words to describe how quickly the blood rushes through my veins when we kiss and I'm on tiptoes to reach your lips and your hand is cupping my face, brushing your thumb across my cheekbone and I feel completely at home.
And they haven't even invented a way to portray how I feel when we're driving too fast in the streets of our hometown, and how I can get lost somewhere that is so damn familiar because I have the chance to explore it with someone new someone like you and you're singing along with the radio, letting me fall asleep in the passenger seat, because you and I are enough, and we don't need words to fill
we're all made of stories.We're all either made of cells or stories, but in your case, it's both. You're somehow bigger than what one body can contain. And I know that all of this all these words and breaths and spaces aren't enough to explain you. You're better than any fiction will ever be.
I remember sitting in the passenger seat of your car, watching the familiar city streets flick by, fast like a picture book. It felt like there was something I was missing between the pages and second story houses, but I couldn't place it. I had my arms wrapped tight around my middle, holding my insides in since I was afraid with every passing moment I would let their contents spill. You wouldn't look at me, but you kept talking. For the first time ever, I wished you would stop. You were telling me that you could never love me and I was completely aware that I had already foolishly followed you in too deep and now you were letting me know that you had been drowning for years. You were promising to take me und
i'm telling myself not to get my hopes up.It's been a long time since I felt like this.
It's all small kicks of my heartbeat
and subtle smiles when no one's looking.
I'm checking my phone messages
more times than any girl should,
but you're not letting me down.
You remind me of a time when things were easy
before I memorized what sadness felt like
and stopped feeling alive.
And for the first time, I don't feel broken
in a way that can't be fixed.
I don't feel like I was built in a way
that doesn't fit.
this isn't progress, because you're irreversible.You were never meant for me.
I knew it in the most obvious manner. It was in the way you had a subtle sort of comfort in your own skin a quiet and humble confidence while I struggled to make sense of the prints on my fingertips and the way one of my eyes crinkled in the corner more than the other when I smiled. You felt safe with yourself while I was always warring with my own reflection. Half the time, I didn't know who I was. A quarter of the time, I still don't. You would call this progress if you were here to see, but I just call it sad.
When you miss something for long enough, you start to forget the exact way that things happened. Or the exact way they happened to fall apart. For instance, I don't remember the first time you didn't call, but I do remember when you told me you loved me but not enough. It's never enough, is it? The point is you were gone before I could even say goodbye. You were gone before you were ever really here, but somehow I let myself bu
these feelings should be finiteI'm terrified and I know there's nothing unique about this, but I'm standing here completely out of touch with the rest of the world, realizing for the first time that we all feel things a little bit differently, which is why this doesn't hurt for you at all. I figure the only logical reason for how you could do this as if it means nothing was if it really did mean nothing at all for you. It's easier to hate you this way. It's easier to forget you without the burn of your kiss against my skin. It's easier to stay mad if I don't have to remember the way that it felt. Most of all, I can forget this as if it's a memory in someone else's lifetime if I accept the fact that we're all different. I can be different like you. I can let this mean nothing.
I could mean nothing if you let me. If I let me.
You talk in big words that I get sick of hearing after awhile with big ideas and wide eyes and a small heart. I once heard that you can only love something so hard, for so long, before the feelin
I'll never tell you -- you already know.I remember in the beginning
there was just you and me
small intervals where the air would leap from my chest,
saying you leave me breathless will always be an understatement.
I wanted to kiss you before
I even knew you or knew the real you
but your untied purple chucks
had me even before your hello--
months later I realized that meant to be's aren't always
as silly as they used to be.
I've fallen in love with how
the palms of our hands match
the planes of our souls and
every time I loop my fingers
between yours we fall deeper--
If there was ever a time I should explain myself,
it's be right now, but I think you know--
I mean you should know--
How irreversibly far I've fallen