Gayley - Hello Poetry

They usually come at night When fighting the battle of sleep I recall the window, green and purple blankets and sheets I am a walking video tape Broken VCR rewinds Without being touched, my brain is the television on which it repeats Classroom desk, The Color Purple, Letter one; repeat 2:00, surprised, they usually come nighttime Video cassette jostled in its compartment, forcibly rewinding No, please let me go to sleep The thoughts take my limbs and bind them to my sides, wishing for the refuge of sheets How I want to burn those sheets Maybe the tape would no longer repeat Take the memories and unfasten them from my mind. It was never at night No sneaking into bedrooms, sleep wasn’t any harder than usual, only rewinding When we were home alone, rewinding Inside those sheets I wonder if he could still sleep Does the repetition Haunt him at night? These memories belong in boxes sealed in ***** basements like ****** up Christmas presents not meant to be opened, tightly wrapped Red ribbon on the spool, rewound like the film tucked away in a cellar without lights, dark as midnight Upstairs, I am safe, a breeze from the open window blows sheets of watercolor paper sprawled on the table with repeating brush strokes. The chair next to the window is a fine place to take a nap. Here, ill recordings do not interrupt my slumber Bandage I’ve read that victims will often put themselves in situations that repeat the traumatic event. Time is the one thing I cannot rewind. I sit in a room of strangers filling out sheets about healthy coping mechanisms. I think of my hard-bedded room; on the wall there is a nightlight But still. Some nights, it’s on repeat. The boxes open while I sleep. Some nights my head is still a video tape They creep up the stairs and into my sheets when I’m not looking. Like tiny spiders that know how to push the << button.

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Jul 22, 2018

Jul 22, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC

A Sestina about PTSD

They usually come at night When fighting the battle of sleep I recall the window, green and purple blankets and sheets I am a walking video tape Broken VCR rewinds Without being touched, my brain is the television on which it repeats Classroom desk, The Color Purple, Letter one; repeat 2:00, surprised, they usually come nighttime Video cassette jostled in its compartment, forcibly rewinding No, please let me go to sleep The thoughts take my limbs and bind them to my sides, wishing for the refuge of sheets How I want to burn those sheets Maybe the tape would no longer repeat Take the memories and unfasten them from my mind. It was never at night No sneaking into bedrooms, sleep wasn’t any harder than usual, only rewinding When we were home alone, rewinding Inside those sheets I wonder if he could still sleep Does the repetition Haunt him at night? These memories belong in boxes sealed in ***** basements like ****** up Christmas presents not meant to be opened, tightly wrapped Red ribbon on the spool, rewound like the film tucked away in a cellar without lights, dark as midnight Upstairs, I am safe, a breeze from the open window blows sheets of watercolor paper sprawled on the table with repeating brush strokes. The chair next to the window is a fine place to take a nap. Here, ill recordings do not interrupt my slumber Bandage I’ve read that victims will often put themselves in situations that repeat the traumatic event. Time is the one thing I cannot rewind. I sit in a room of strangers filling out sheets about healthy coping mechanisms. I think of my hard-bedded room; on the wall there is a nightlight But still. Some nights, it’s on repeat. The boxes open while I sleep. Some nights my head is still a video tape They creep up the stairs and into my sheets when I’m not looking. Like tiny spiders that know how to push the << button.

39

Ⅰ. Her paintings often worried people outstretched hands and cooing voice “Are you alright?” “It comes and goes in waves” You see, that was her specialty Composing masterpieces out of emotional turmoil Ⅱ. The Artist found her new muse within the heart of a Bibliophile Stacks of books bowing the wood on a stained white bookshelf Her favorite; a black bound Salvador Dali collective Ribbon bookmark frayed by the teeth of an orange kitten The bibliophile’s face filled the Artist’s sketchbook pages The finest work of art in her mind’s eye Ⅲ. She fills the bad nights with smoking good **** and drinking cheap liquor Her feet touch the floor for the first time in 3 days Hair knotted and joints crackling Empty pizza boxes litter the floor of her studio Blank canvas next to dried paint ****** up attracts ****** up” she said, paint scraper in hand, How ironic the Artist cuts herself with her tools Ⅵ. She remembers how they made love on a mattress without a frame Fingers brush across bodies leaving behind colors of flushed skin Like an anatomical paint-by-number They breathe smoke into each other’s lungs The Bibliophile said “You are my favorite drug.” A deadly mix of ******* ***** and marijuana “You keep me on my toes and put me on my *** all at the same time.” Ⅴ. She squeezes her thighs into stretch denim Attempting an imitation of normal The Artist stares distantly at the blinding white of blank pages The thoughts of the Bibliophile tickle her amygdala Begging to run rampant across canvas Time heals all wounds She calls ********

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Jul 22, 2018

Jul 22, 2018 at 10:04 PM UTC

The Artist and the Bibliophile

Ⅰ. Her paintings often worried people outstretched hands and cooing voice “Are you alright?” “It comes and goes in waves” You see, that was her specialty Composing masterpieces out of emotional turmoil Ⅱ. The Artist found her new muse within the heart of a Bibliophile Stacks of books bowing the wood on a stained white bookshelf Her favorite; a black bound Salvador Dali collective Ribbon bookmark frayed by the teeth of an orange kitten The bibliophile’s face filled the Artist’s sketchbook pages The finest work of art in her mind’s eye Ⅲ. She fills the bad nights with smoking good **** and drinking cheap liquor Her feet touch the floor for the first time in 3 days Hair knotted and joints crackling Empty pizza boxes litter the floor of her studio Blank canvas next to dried paint ****** up attracts ****** up” she said, paint scraper in hand, How ironic the Artist cuts herself with her tools Ⅵ. She remembers how they made love on a mattress without a frame Fingers brush across bodies leaving behind colors of flushed skin Like an anatomical paint-by-number They breathe smoke into each other’s lungs The Bibliophile said “You are my favorite drug.” A deadly mix of ******* ***** and marijuana “You keep me on my toes and put me on my *** all at the same time.” Ⅴ. She squeezes her thighs into stretch denim Attempting an imitation of normal The Artist stares distantly at the blinding white of blank pages The thoughts of the Bibliophile tickle her amygdala Begging to run rampant across canvas Time heals all wounds She calls ********

38

I. He has a habit of picking flowers and putting them in waterless vases He plants poppies and marigolds on his bedroom floor Nettles grow where his feet fall He becomes another bloom Without sun nor rain He lies down in the green Withering II. When he is happy It feels like I'm putting my tongue to a 9 volt battery He rushes through my veins Shocking my system Sparking me up like a cigarette Giving me energy I've never known When he is depressed It's like drinking battery acid His kisses spill darkness into me My body attempts to filter the black tar Leaking from his lips There's a heaviness that doesn't go away It lingers in my chest as he does when he's happy Tiny flower buds atop Little floating feathers Growing Tickling Filling me up When he is sad They do not float 6 tons of flowers and feathers still weigh the same as 6 tons of steel Crushing Crushing Withering III. My love lies bleeding Among the green sprouting around him You cannot purge darkness Into porcelain with fingers down your throat How am I to pull these weeds Fighting the vines twisting inside me, whispering "Lie down beside him And wither too"

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Jul 22, 2018

Jul 22, 2018 at 9:55 PM UTC

Withering

I. He has a habit of picking flowers and putting them in waterless vases He plants poppies and marigolds on his bedroom floor Nettles grow where his feet fall He becomes another bloom Without sun nor rain He lies down in the green Withering II. When he is happy It feels like I'm putting my tongue to a 9 volt battery He rushes through my veins Shocking my system Sparking me up like a cigarette Giving me energy I've never known When he is depressed It's like drinking battery acid His kisses spill darkness into me My body attempts to filter the black tar Leaking from his lips There's a heaviness that doesn't go away It lingers in my chest as he does when he's happy Tiny flower buds atop Little floating feathers Growing Tickling Filling me up When he is sad They do not float 6 tons of flowers and feathers still weigh the same as 6 tons of steel Crushing Crushing Withering III. My love lies bleeding Among the green sprouting around him You cannot purge darkness Into porcelain with fingers down your throat How am I to pull these weeds Fighting the vines twisting inside me, whispering "Lie down beside him And wither too"

43

I can't stop thinking of it How the razor feels so cool in my hands Fitting so perfectly between the grip of finger and thumb How it appears from nothing Pink to Bright red Beads of blood pooling along the fine line of open flesh The cold burn of alcohol The soreness and sting with every step I can't stop thinking of his blood What if mine looked like that one day How strangely romantic it would be to bleed out the hurt together I woke up craving it He kisses me hard before I leave him behind in my dreams It does not hurt during Only after perhaps these dreams are much like razors I woke up craving to open myself up clavicle to stomach pour myself out over white sheets the stains wont come out My mom would throw them away The place where i once felt safe has grown teeth and a devious grin come in my friend, while I chew you like gum and spit you out when the sweetness has subsided

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Jun 3, 2018

Jun 3, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC

Relapse

I can't stop thinking of it How the razor feels so cool in my hands Fitting so perfectly between the grip of finger and thumb How it appears from nothing Pink to Bright red Beads of blood pooling along the fine line of open flesh The cold burn of alcohol The soreness and sting with every step I can't stop thinking of his blood What if mine looked like that one day How strangely romantic it would be to bleed out the hurt together I woke up craving it He kisses me hard before I leave him behind in my dreams It does not hurt during Only after perhaps these dreams are much like razors I woke up craving to open myself up clavicle to stomach pour myself out over white sheets the stains wont come out My mom would throw them away The place where i once felt safe has grown teeth and a devious grin come in my friend, while I chew you like gum and spit you out when the sweetness has subsided

28

I can't stop thinking of your arms How they wrapped around me that night Braille of a story spelled out across them I run my fingers across the raised surface of scarred skin There's so many It's nostalgic I felt your breathing deepen Sleep This world has been cruel to you Sleep With arms safe in my palms It's sort of tragically beautiful Two souls threatening to break at any moment Lean on one another We know what it's like to be broken Sleep I'll be your pillow Sleep I'll be your razor Cut into me And take what you need

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Mar 16, 2018

Mar 16, 2018 at 1:20 PM UTC

Sleeping Suicide Risk

I can't stop thinking of your arms How they wrapped around me that night Braille of a story spelled out across them I run my fingers across the raised surface of scarred skin There's so many It's nostalgic I felt your breathing deepen Sleep This world has been cruel to you Sleep With arms safe in my palms It's sort of tragically beautiful Two souls threatening to break at any moment Lean on one another We know what it's like to be broken Sleep I'll be your pillow Sleep I'll be your razor Cut into me And take what you need

21

My therapist calls you a mind-fucker You know how to get under my skin Into my brain And scramble neurons These months are the hardest The detox When every cell inside of me is craving you Your name appears once more Finish me off next time, would you?

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Mar 9, 2018

Mar 9, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC

Mindfuck

My therapist calls you a mind-fucker You know how to get under my skin Into my brain And scramble neurons These months are the hardest The detox When every cell inside of me is craving you Your name appears once more Finish me off next time, would you?

9

I cannot hide the way I feel When you're standing right there next to me And I cannot lie that when you speak My heart forgets to time its beats And I know it's wrong but I can't help This feeling that you give to me Oh what a mess we've made What a hole that we've dug You're trying to pull me away But I would rather be stuck with you And we, we could run away, my love Away from the Universe Time, make it stop so I can breathe The morning's nearly here again And I don't know much But this could be Where my soul is pulling me Oh what a mess we've made What a hole that we've dug You're trying to pull me away But I would rather be stuck with you Then you take my hand And you whisper to me Darling when I'm with you, you are all that I see Oh what a pickle we're in But you make me happy My heart is stuck with you And yours is stuck with me Please wont you hold me Please wont you kiss me Oh what a pickle we're in Oh what a pickle we're in my love

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Jan 21, 2018

Jan 21, 2018 at 3:33 PM UTC

Do you remember

I cannot hide the way I feel When you're standing right there next to me And I cannot lie that when you speak My heart forgets to time its beats And I know it's wrong but I can't help This feeling that you give to me Oh what a mess we've made What a hole that we've dug You're trying to pull me away But I would rather be stuck with you And we, we could run away, my love Away from the Universe Time, make it stop so I can breathe The morning's nearly here again And I don't know much But this could be Where my soul is pulling me Oh what a mess we've made What a hole that we've dug You're trying to pull me away But I would rather be stuck with you Then you take my hand And you whisper to me Darling when I'm with you, you are all that I see Oh what a pickle we're in But you make me happy My heart is stuck with you And yours is stuck with me Please wont you hold me Please wont you kiss me Oh what a pickle we're in Oh what a pickle we're in my love

32

Darling, Aphrodite may be beautiful But she still started a war.

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Jan 7, 2018

Jan 7, 2018 at 1:03 AM UTC

Aphrodite: a response

Darling, Aphrodite may be beautiful But she still started a war.

3

Sitting In the dark Hands move Stomach flips Tingles from my toes To my stomach To my Fingertips and lips Longing Wondering If we are sharing the same thoughts Perhaps The Universe gave us to each other Perhaps The Universe does not exist Perhaps It is all coincidence But Darling, life is too short To focus on perhaps My apologies If I stare too long I underestimated How easy it would be to get Caught and lost In your galaxies

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Jan 4, 2018

Jan 4, 2018 at 2:22 AM UTC

Perhaps

Sitting In the dark Hands move Stomach flips Tingles from my toes To my stomach To my Fingertips and lips Longing Wondering If we are sharing the same thoughts Perhaps The Universe gave us to each other Perhaps The Universe does not exist Perhaps It is all coincidence But Darling, life is too short To focus on perhaps My apologies If I stare too long I underestimated How easy it would be to get Caught and lost In your galaxies

25

You were solid ground I could stand on In this melancholy sea of uncertainty I had always been drawn to the unpredictable but you were a home I could grow up in I built a future I could hold in my palms on your foundations The ground starts to shake As you pull yourself from under me The risk of drowning becomes more likely as the hours pass I fear that if you are gone, My future will follow I believe in soulmates You and I are complimentary figures But perhaps I am not good enough for forever

0

Nov 8, 2017

Nov 8, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC

Foundations

You were solid ground I could stand on In this melancholy sea of uncertainty I had always been drawn to the unpredictable but you were a home I could grow up in I built a future I could hold in my palms on your foundations The ground starts to shake As you pull yourself from under me The risk of drowning becomes more likely as the hours pass I fear that if you are gone, My future will follow I believe in soulmates You and I are complimentary figures But perhaps I am not good enough for forever

13