[x]

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

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

split me open like a sunrisei promise
i don't think about you anymore
not even a little
like a mouse;
but the moment
i fall like the autumn,
the one we spent
at the in-between-
a crossing of streets,
the lovers
and strangers-
seeing you
is like
seeing my own hands
for the first time.

i stumble with numbness
and a definite lack
of control(led motor skills)
as i fight for an instant
where i feel it is safe
to breathe,
or to let my heart beat.
i hate to see your eyes.
they are too warm
and i know that if i were
to reach and touch your skin,
it would be, too.

what did i do before i watched you,
a figure eight
winding in the periphery?

what did

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.

kelsey's valentine's day poemi don't see the point
of writing you something
beautiful
when anything we have made
beautiful
has fallen
like ice from the sky.

instead of beautiful
rivulets of crystal from the clouds,
they became knives;
words once gorgeous
ravaged my skin,
a razorblade.
every photograph
of us
together,
your head on my lap
and my lips on yours,
something that took effort
and time and care
that you no longer have,
something that took awhile
but eventually grew on me
as one of my favourite pictures,
as something solid,
proof of us,
this photograph,
any photograph
of you and i together,
now an image of something
we've left behin

i have the right not to give excuses or reasonsi am not going to
explain myself
away.

i am no ocean tide,
ebbing and flowing
over the sands of us,
and your approval-
your pleasure
of what i am
is not needed.

you do not
need to know
why i am hurt,
why we do not speak,
or why i still love you.
you do not
need to understand
(the way the moon
does its stars)
why i feel and ache
and show this on
my skin and bone.

the fear,
however,
of keeping you away,
of creating distance
more than the miles
between home
and georgia,
relinquishes
the power i hold
between my teeth
and i burrow
like scarab beetles in the sand
into why,
why,
why.

i cannot wait
to breathe
an

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

the sickness of breathingi thank god's hands
for creating you
and bearing you
to me;
and i fear the day
that he takes you away.

i wish you all the wellness
bubbling up from the ground,
and all the mud from which
we were each made.
and all the same,
i know better than to
believe it
when i feel
you will stay.

tonight, i know you
will leave me
again.

when you do,
i need you to
kiss me like your mother
kissed your father
the day she left you
all behind,
packed her suitcase
full of flowered clothing,
and shut the front door behind her
quietly.

colour the desperation
quietly on your face.
i want to see you feel
before you turn
away from me

when someone you loved becomes a memoryi'm interested in things falling,
breaking,
and being forgotten.
i like to see
glass bleed,
it makes me realise
i'm not the only thing
running red.

when i look,
i see passing eyes
roam the lines of my arms,
italian winding roads,
and quickly rush away
into their houses.
nobody likes to watch
something
slowly crumble-

if it isn't a crash,
a tragic accident,
an innocent death
at a hundred miles per hour,
but a drawn out,
intentional decay,
a condemned building
with cracking windows-

you will always see
the whites of their eyes
as they turn away
so as to never meet
the deadness
in yours.

what was once our home is now our horror.when i'm not talking to you
i feel like vomiting,
walking behind a boy
who wore the same cologne
as you.

i can't cancel us-
we aren't a subscription-
before we have been
worn through
like soles of
old shoes.

and i think you
know that,
too.

the silence,
as heavy as it is,
is nothing
compared to the weight
of our hearts.

i don't know
if we'll ever
let this go;

but before we're done,
i need you
to look at me
full on,
the way you would
a mirror,
and not a naked girl
undressing in front
of you
for the last time.

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

when the eastern sun sinksi wonder if you would
change your mind
(change yourself,
find it in your
heart
to feel a little something
for me)
if you saw the words
you've pulled from
my mouth;

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
show you,
i could give you so much
to feel,
but you slink like a
nightcrawler from light
to a comfortable recession,
and there,
you stay.

one day,
we will talk again
and no stammered heart
will beat like birds
if our hands touch;
one day,
you will realise
that sooner than you have,
you could have
shar

i'm too sick to lovedon't let me go
if you don't know
what to do without me;

if you can't
sleep at night
because you wonder
whose arms i'm in,
and break bones every time
they're not yours:
it means you should
hold on to me.

i know
it seems like
i might just jump
but i always come back to you.
i'm sorry that i'm so stuck.

but still,
love is when you answer my call,
to hear your voice
a thousand miles away.
i'm sorry we aren't
together
anymore,
i'm sorry i'm
too sick
for you to
love
again.

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

glass windowswe are windows,
made of glass
and shattered
in the old houses
of our bodies.

the wood of our
fragile frames
has been dismissed,
extricated from
their interlocking
webwork,
and pulled a
thousand miles
into the heat of georgia.

i will miss the
weighted feathers
of your hands,
the sun spilling
across your face
and painting your
smile,
graffiti,
across the city
of barcelona.

i am terrified
to lose you
to the sea,
ever-growing,
between
you and me.

i just pray
to the same god
you believe in
that if our ship
sinks,
we will each
remember
to float.

Browse More Like This

Download File
HTML, 1.1 KB more ▶

More from *ohsostarryeyed

nicotine withdrawalhis fingers are drumming on the metal ring round the countertop. his knee is sharp and jostling, beating out a ruthless rhythm in time with his tongue flicking against his teeth.

his knuckles are raw, fingers chewed senseless and bloodied. the waitress casts uneasy looks his way every few seconds. she is concerned for him; he is jittery and looks like a boy she met at a party once, where she first tried ecstasy and the boy he resembled fell into a heroin coma.

his eyes are rolling around, looking at everything but focusing on nothing. the waitress wraps her fingers around her elbow, feeling awkward and unbearably nervous. this boy wore the

the marigold benchin faded delirium the order of the world dissembles. it is my mind, replicated endlessly, mitotic and slippery, paint cradling reality in soft palms.

here is the sky, pink at noon and blue at sunset, black at darkest night with stars soaked in its ebony skin.

a boy in his attractive pallor is on his bench, shifting from alertly thoughtful to a slouched spine and heavy head in heartfelt hands. he watches the world.

until my thoughts wrapped their arms around the hips of reality, the boy was alone.

busy legs would shuttle past his static form, dress-pant thighs rubbing against one another. he would be asked if he smoked weed; he would smile

i cannot feel it anymoremy own heart,
the most terrible thing i ever knew,
more than the seventeen candles i could
not gather the breath to extinguish,
more than the shake in my fingers as i said
i could not love you like you love me,
more than the sheer face from which
my stomach sank
as you swore you loved me the same
way i loved you and how i knew in my heart
you were wrong;
peeling back my thoughts to see
how you loved her, seeing that the windows
gleamed because you loved her,
knowing that your dreams bloomed because you loved her
never feeling how your body screamed
because
you
loved
her

i, the ever-scared lioni am breathing for the urge to tell you something beautiful

i do not kiss with lips but
with sweet bones thrust sunward,
wondering what it is like to be embraced
by the arms of a skeleton

the king and queen and monarch (butterfly)
crowns of roses or holly,
winter brings cold and thoughts of you

i, the ever-scared lion,
shudder in my sheets

i can show you fear in a handbasket,
the girth of the sun snapping leather belts
until our faces fall to the earth

the bottle was broken,
message pecked by gulls-
i hope you know i said i loved you
and the world will fall at your feet

we are but lonely dolls
and your murmurs of eternity
p

GodlinessDr. Finch likes to label my phases.  Today is a Fear Day, meaning I am too afraid to get out of bed.  Fear Days scare my mother more than my Fire Days, Germ Days, and Intruder Days combined.  She wakes me this morning to have me get ready to go to her church.  Her hand is warm as it shook my shoulder, but I scream.

"Shhh, honey, it's just me.  It's time to get ready for church."

My head is still buried beneath my blanket.  "I can't go.  Please leave me alone."

"What day is it?"  she asks, although she knows it is Sunday.

"Sunday.  Sundays are Fear Da

the personal ad of a writerumpteen year old woman, married once to the false hope of literary promise, from themiddleof, nowhere.

i spend night by fire, with a wish to fall in to bear beautiful, melting scars. burn off all my hair. singe my eyelids. sleep in cinders. i spend time in bed alone, celibate, not-sleeping, not-dreaming, too-tired, just-thinking.

i am often seen wearing a coat of blue wool, holding a knock-off coffee-chain cup, carrying emotional baggage in a brown leather suitcase.

unemployed, undetermined, unattached, underwater, unimportant.

in search of a hand to hold, heart to spit out, lips to kiss the scars on my wrists, mouth to suck out my soul[

View Gallery

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

Submitted: February 23, 2012
File Size: 1.1 KB

Link

Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 50
Favourites: 166 [who?]
Views: 2,217 (0 today)
Downloads: 76 (0 today)

[x]

wasting us

by *ohsostarryeyed, Feb 23, 2012, 8:43:47 PM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

i 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 touches you
with her heart and not just her fingers-
every time it crosses your mind,
you're going to remember me
in extraordinary detail
and see me
like the extraordinary person
that i am,
with
or without
you.

wasting usby *ohsostarryeyed

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Free Verse

©2012-2013 *ohsostarryeyed

i could have written this by speaking out loud in a continual stream

featured!
[link]

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

Mood: Love

~TheLittleMilky Mar 18, 2012

Wonderful work

Absolutely true and touching. Feels like it would speak right out of my heart..

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Mar 19, 2012

Reply

~Iceblueeyedgirl Mar 8, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

Absolutely Perfect in every way!! I Completely Love This!!!! <3

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Mar 8, 2012

ahhh, thank you! :]

Reply

Mood: Love

~kaname-chan Mar 2, 2012

Beautiful. The heart behind this is amazing. The way you go about in this is astounding. I like it a lot because it has passion in it and a sense of strength. I think it can inspire others to be stronger

Reply

~YourLeo Feb 29, 2012

I love this so much. Exactly what Ive been feeling, just far more beautiful than I ever could've thought it

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 29, 2012

oh wow, thank you so much!

Reply

~The-last-black-rose Feb 29, 2012 Student Writer

this is everything that i've wanted to say to someone
but have never had the courage
or the heart to

Reply

*ohsostarryeyed Feb 29, 2012

love to you!

Reply

~collarbonechild Feb 28, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

chills, agh, i don't even

i love this immensely and i feel the same.

Reply