before georgia takes you again
when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you wouldchange your mind(change yourself,find it in yourheartto feel a little somethingfor me)if you saw the wordsyou've pulled frommy mouth;uncovered by your lips,i find poems under my hands.i write strophes and linesimprinted on your skinwhen i move my fingers away.i have so much toshow you,i could give you so muchto feel,but you slink like anightcrawler from lightto a comfortable recession,and there,you stay.one day,we will talk againand no stammered heartwill beat like birdsif our hands touch;one day,you will realisethat sooner than you have,you could haveshared your selfwith someone elseand been safe-you would have beensafe
revelations in the mudi only want to fall in loveif someone is thereto fall with me.i want to jump from high placesand pretend i'm flying,i'm a bird, i'm light enough at-fucking-lastfor the air to catch me,and the harsh grounds beneath me?can't touch this.but i'm earthboundand parachutes will not workif you do not open them,and i am just so sickof feeling like maybe,becoming an abstract paintingon 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 meyou 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.look.the purpose of life is to knock you on your assso 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 youabout fire and living& how both burn even if you ignore themit's not about what feels goodit's about what doesn'tcornering what hurtsand exposing itreally displaying itpedestal on highfor what it isand not what it pretends to beyou are not livinguntil you hurtyou can't be aliveif all you know is comfortcomfort is only a signthat you are doing what you knowit is admittance of limitationbecause you are humanand only know so muchand it's agonising to thinkthat you can be comfortable with thatand not want to reach outand touch every thing you findand read every book you seeand hear every sound you canbecause enough is never enoughis never enough is alwaystoo much.
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' poetryto make our own.i was not afraid of skin,and you were not afraid to feel.we were born with instinct for a reason:follow it.realising what you want is half the battle.my other half is hesitation-my other half is you.i still swell with emotions my therapistcan't help me labelwhen i remember how you saidyou weren't over me.and how we joined again,with an interim year,and a new understanding of emotionadding 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,serpentine,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 boneswith lightness,and a heart that is ready tolove youa
barcelona is burningi owe you an apology-you, in the crowd,the one panicking about readingor the mess at homeor the sheer volume of peoplepressing into you like corners;you,the woman who birthed me into this worldthrough hours of agonyas though that wasn't enoughbecause doctor appointment after therapy appointment after residential stay after thirtieth pound lost,i've put you through countlesssleepless nightswarped into months of agonyyou 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 constantlyand threw myself into bookslike 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 talkbecause talking means thatsomeone else can't&you start to realise(as most girls do)that you have a boyfriend&soonhe's not just a boyfriend;he's your boyfriend&he's not just better thananyone else in the worldhe's better thananything else in the world&you would trade years off your lifeto spend a little longer with himor to see him smile when he's sador to feel his face in your hairthe way he does when he hugs you&you can't feel itbecause right now he's too far awaybut distance is only the space betweenpoint a and point bbetween you&between me&if you give it just a little more timeyou'll realise nothing has changedand the disjointed rhythmsyour heart beats out like a drumsticks like a song in your headthe moment you watch recognitionhit his eyeswhen you walk in.
the commutei keep your kissunder my bed:i won't lose itjust because you aren't here.instead,i will hesitate in the spacesbetween the weekswe are together,and we areapart.i will write you lettersand gaps and commaswhen my head stops spinningand my pride takes a bowto the lion of my heart,and feel the stinging airof imaginationseep out of its balloon.put your (love) affairs in order, dearand find me under your blankets;i want the places i know bestto be the ones made of skin,secretly tucked awayin the crook of your elbowwhere my body rests, orbehind your ear,like a pencil-i want you to write me wordsthat make me start to hum.
virgin culturethere's a little more to love than lustand 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 grapevinewhen 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 numberand 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 morethan bad habits,filed somewhere betweenbiting my nails and always saying i'm sorry.the expectation of the windsblowing softer til they ceasedended with your mouth on mine;the nerves fraying from fearhave been tended to with needle and thread;and the water i so wiklfully wouldn't touchfeels warmer as it incheslike your handsup my ankles to my bare knees.i have found my heart-it has put itself into this.my stomach turns the ocean calmwhen i think of the messes i'll make,and the sewing you will stitch.and i'm terrifiedlike nightmares that don't dissolve upon wakingfor the ending weeks of winterwhen you leave for the great missouri banks.until then,my heart is found,put in this,and slipping and mendingand messes commonplace,i am finally feelingthe warmth the rest of this brings,the fire i'd fought so hardto dampenfor no other reasonthan to stifle our joy.
if people didn't filter their emotions and justthrowing yourself onfloors doesn't fix anything,but it sure seems to.
bipolar IIa week is spentin throes of excitability,irritation, unstoppable words,and ideas with wings of their own-they soar in their preternatural flightwithout a second's noticeand meander along separate currents.sleep is an elusive,abstract idea,fought for so ruthlessly,only to have it slip away,silent,mere hours later.i am icarus, resin-winged in thoughtand flying til my fingers canalmostbrush the sun.i am icarus, resin-winged in thoughtand watching my feathers dropuntil my bodyis subject once moreto the relentless rules of gravity.hitting the dirthurts 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 bedroombecome expected.i know how the sun feelswhen it sinks below the earth,and the struggle of the moonas it thrashes to rise.the endless circlefrom night and daygrows so tiresome that sometime,i swearit will justcease.
sometimes all you really need is for someone toi was loved; it was enough.
constellations are just bodiesyou left me in my bed-i was crying-when you walked down my stairsfor the last time.you were to spend the night-you lived hours away-until you told meyou couldn't do thisanymore.i was fine-you were just a constellation-until your wordsforced images of my last lovebefore 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 iswhy didn't we fuckbefore saying goodbye?
my dead gay brother becomes memore and more i am becoming an invisible monster.i can't cry without an audiencei am willing to bend and bend and bend andbreakto just get a littlelove love love lovelvoe lvoelve love love lovelove mei will do anything for you if you just tell me you love mei am a nobodywith backbreaking pains to become something beautifuland if i can't have thati want to be invisiblei want to be nothingand stilloh how i wish it wasn't sobut stillas nothing as i ami want you to love me.
this is less of a love poem and more of athere is something to be saidabout resisting the temptationto start out with a bang.the hallway of your neckhas never lost its scentand it's something, i swear,i swear, i can never forgetbecause it's something surrealto wake up while you're asleepand feel you pull me closertil our faces almost meet-but please,hold onto that almost,hold onto it like stardust.you need to touch me in a whisperbecause it's been too longsince i've felt the hand of someonewho actually meant it,someone who actually meant somethingand i'm so glad, my god,i'm on my kneesi am praying to(o,) my godthat we won't burn out so quick this time,i'm too tired to bear new scarsi just want you to love mebut that's not something i could ever ask.just some time maybe,i know that no august moon can watch us foreverand keep us warm,and no constellation can teach me everythingi've ever needed to know.but everything ugly i ever saw about youand 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.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'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 wonderif it's really true--if history really does justrepeat& repeat& repeat.and now we're stuck in its loop whereyou're holding everything backand i'm holding everything in.and there's nothing to do,but hope for the bestor at least something better.but for now, i just wonderif there's anyone elsewho misses quite as muchas i do.it's never enough to remember,but it's always too muchto forget.
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 breathingin the same pattern that you used toand if your life just picked upas it was before in a way thatmakes me insignificantand meaningless.I wonder if there's someone new if she speaks in complete sentencesand means itwhen she saysshe loves you.I wonder if you're doing betterand if you'll get it right this time.I wonder,but I don't really care.That's the differencebetween now and before,because beforeI couldn't forget youand now,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 heartbeatand subtle smiles when no one's looking.I'm checking my phone messagesmore times than any girl should,but you're not letting me down.You remind me of a time when things were easybefore I memorized what sadness felt likeand stopped feeling alive.And for the first time, I don't feel brokenin a way that can't be fixed.I don't feel like I was built in a waythat 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 beginningthere was just you and meand heartbeats--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 beforeI even knew you or knew the real youbut your untied purple chuckshad me even before your hello--months later I realized that meant to be's aren't alwaysas silly as they used to be.I've fallen in love with howthe palms of our hands matchthe planes of our souls andevery time I loop my fingersbetween 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 fallenfor you.
the most terrifying thing in the worldnever knowing.