I cradled myself in thoughts of you to keep me safe.
Now I lay cradled in the arms of another empty night.
Reveling in your silence.
Wrapped up in abandoned promises.
Lost in your words.
I love how close you are to the distance.
As if I could slip away
and fall between the cracks of the mattress and bed frame,
only to be turned over and over again in the ripples of the sheets-
pushed away by your tireless storm.
I cling to the reminence of what used to be a sturdy ship.
Now just a board of something that once was.
A distant memory.
that maybe these broken pieces can bring me to your shore.
Constantly rotating images like a small child who
Recently acquired a red Viewmaster
Laughing so joyously in amazement
Such a thing can exist and be held between two hands.
I think about my own throat
Face turning lapis blood vessels
Breaking in attempt to speak and I am laughing
At a 3D image portraying the death of my beloved Betta Fish,
A fillet knife resting on the table
His eyes looking up at me,
Ever running and rotating
It’s not necessarily a fantasy
Metaphor alluding to a deep rooted feeling of loss or anger
An apple once swallowed
That settled down and never came out
Every time I look in the mirror
My hands are my hands and
My face is my own but with something missing,
Not some sudden emotion that’ll pass or rot
This thought loves me and I’ve been
Biting my tongue on saying it back
Not wanting to admit that violence is my true passion
There’s enough awareness to not walk
On that side of the street anymore avoid
Making eye contact lock the door
In a neighborhood once claimed safe.
I’ve grown old, tired of pain
Being the key to happiness tired
Of constantly changing the locks
Yet always waking up to breakfast in bed,
Settling for acceptance over relief,
Dysphoria over amendment
Feeling whole isn’t worth it
If all the pieces are broken
How's the bed you side of the pond?
Do you see figments of me when i'm gone?
Does it stay cold my side of the sheets?
Hate to think another's imprint comes in between.
Do you want more than to share the moon?
We were in orbit in your room.
Do restless nights make you think of us?
Our pillow talk and a little fuss.
I close my eyes; in another world,
our summer nights with the covers hurled.
You ask 'How's the bed your end of the sea?'
Its only warm when you lay with me.
A piece of furniture–
wooden-framed or not
with a mattress
or mat long enough for a human of any size
with cloth coverings and a pillow.
Small or big, puffed or flat.
Quiet, empty, unmade, made
Yet this is where we are born,
where we pray,
where we lie,
where we love,
and where we die.
Where we begin our day and end it.
We may spend a third of our life here
in sleep, in tears, in joy.
Like with a lover, we hesitate to leave--
or like with a mother that promises cover from the world,
we cling to her skirts and breathe in linen
while she pads our dirty heads.
But like children, hesitant and weak we go
stumbling over our foal feet
and blink at the newborn light through the blinds.
Day is dawning.
The world continues to spin, and with it
day grows longer.
Spring promises to knock on my window
and wash me clean in the first rain.
Winter is gone and took her shadows.
The world alive outside calls me
But still I come running back,
to the feeling of softness, closeness, my mother’s hand
on my shoulder as she tucks me in
or you beside me, your arm around my waist
and voice in my ear.
So tell me, what is it
that brings us back
you to me,
me to home
to this piece of furniture?
To this bed.
In your body I can breathe,
my internal sigh.
The bed is our familiar,
so hard for us to go.
To leave this oasis,
where we fit so mosaic
like cherry blossoms in spring
or rooftops filled with rain.
I hate how vapid I become
as I stargaze at the sun.
Leave me dozy,
laughable at best,
You are my only.
Tu es mon amour.
such a piercingly sly and subtle space
could fill up her house float
she privily teaches her heart
to hush down a little
rather than wish tomorrow never comes
it must have been the heaviest sigh
could have secretly held in every time
they shovel down
unmistakable weights on her bed
instead of shifting them
into less than a wreck
I want you to know that this has not fallen off my to-do list
It’s just that I spend most of my time worrying
So much so that I am unable to breathe
Or focus on the tasks that choke me
And when I'm not worried
I'm laying in bed unable to do anything
I call it ‘a stop-start’ anxiety
riddled with depression