Day Wing
Day Wing
Jul 12      Jul 12

We were but broken hearts; hoping to find the pieces in each other's embrace

Jan 6, 2014      Jan 7, 2014

If I had to say anything I would have to say wow.  I can't believe that you are so perfect. I almost hate leaving. If having countless people hurt me in the past to lead up to being with you then I wouldn't go back and change a single moment. I'm not good with being emotional and talking about my feelings around you so that's why I'm writing them. You are amazing, sweet, caring, perfect  every word I can think of you are. How could I want anything more then just laying around and being a total goofball with you. Why would I want anything esle then being as happy as I can be. Why would I want anything esle then sleeping with you and actually sleeping all night and not waking up constantly cause I feel nervous or panicky. I don't think I could have it any better. You asked me what do I like about you and I couldn't give you good answers but I don't like your voice and I don't like your hair and I don't like your singing randomly. I love them. I love that you feel comfortable with me I love holding your hand when we are at target or the mall. I love being around you to not even caring if I come home or not. I always thought that I never was good enough for someone that everyone always would Leave me and never look back but I feel different with you that I feel safe. Safe. I do love you and those three words only have came out once before and I got totally riped apart because of it. I'm trying to put everything out on the table and rip away from any of the nagtive feelings I have towards love and open up let it all go and start new.

every time my candle flickers,
i think to myself,
                             maybe this is God, maybe this is God telling me that he    
                               is real and i am not alone

                                                          ­             but then
                                                                ­       the flame stills
                                                                ­        i go back to work
                                                            ­            and i think to myself,
                              i knew it was too good to be true

something about the way i can
feel more confident
with less clothes and
something about
the way i have an
easier time looking in the mirror
when i know you'd
be staring at me like
you hadn't touched another body
in ten thousand years.

there's something wrong about the way i can only feel
                                                            ­                                hot
                             ­                                                                 ­    worthy
                                                      ­                                                        accomplis­hed
                      when i know you're looking at me with more emotion than you've ever known to be possible because
                                                         ­            you can't see me without thinking about the fact that my body will never be under yours again.

                                                         ­                                                 there's something wrong about the way people can walk ten galaxies away but never leave us.

dense as fog.

she couldn't
look past
but she could
straight through

every day.

in the hallway
as if she
was the one
that no hands
        no ropes
        no hearts
could ever fully grasp,
could every fully keep,
could every fully convince to stay.

she walked
     ­               away
from him
as he
continued on to
his new girl
      new fuck buddy
      new toy to distract from how he could never stop himself from killing
         he loved.

empty cups
curtained windows
and a bible that hasn't been opened since they told you there's a chance.
clusters of papers-
                                          coupled with
that old journal you vowed to never open again.
the orange bottles need to be
unma­de bed
beat up tissue box.
                                                            ­                  no one gets it.

this is sanctuary.
                            this is how you start to live again.
                                                          ­                             no one knows about
                                                           ­                                            the used to be.
the full cup
the bolted windows
the brainwashing
the attempted letters
and the pages decorated with a different kind of ink.

they don't know about
the thoughts before the pills
the never-empty bed
the fits of anger.
                                                          ­                       this is how you start to live                        
                                                                ­                                                    again.

she walks in
        "i have a splitting headache"
and then retreats
to her room,
too long sweatpants
on the floor.
and i wonder
if it's the same kind of
headache i get
when i can't stop
about the
until all i know is that
i don't want to be breathing
                  ­           correctly pumping blood
                             from my heart
                             to the rest of
                             my body.
i wonder
if she gets those
kind of headaches
that the
stuff can never

his dick is
nothing spectacular
but it's hard-
for me-
and it's smooth
             and soft
             and ready to be held
                                         shown how to stargaze while the sun is still out.
but he
grabs my hand,
pulls me up,
                up and away
from the
only part of him
that will ever beat for me and my blistered hands and chapped lips.

"i don't love you"

and i know.

he lowers down
and kisses my chest
and sucks
         my tits
and rubs my clit
and that
is all i want from him.

i only wash my hair every four days
and i never shave my legs unless i'm going somewhere that requires a dress-
         or no clothes at all.
                            and i never remember to put on deodorant in the morning.

i only ever brushed my hair after practice
and reapplied makeup
and made sure to douse myself in the perfume you like so much so
                  you could run your fingers through something more than steam,
                                              you could let your eyes roam without hesitation,
                  you could call me at two in the morning and tell me your clothes  
                                                       ­                                             still
              ­                                                                 ­                          smelt                   
                                        ­                                                                 ­         like                                      
             ­                                                                 ­                                           me.

i only ever did anything
                                       for you.

they said Bukowski was not a poet
and that if he was
he was a goddamn awful one.
but there's something
to be said about a man
who can fuck whores
and come out of it
with more respect for them
than for the rest of the
human population.
there's honor to be given
to a man who could
drink all day and
be more than what
all the medical books
said he could be.
and there is credit to be given
to the man who could
unite the displaced
with who he was
as a human being and nothing more.

Bukowski may be
one goddamn
horrible poet
but he sure
as hell
knew more than we will ever be able to comprehend.

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