I have a hard time writing about the curve
Of that road that we drove down with wind in our hair
You let me unbuckle my seatbelt and stand with my whole body out the window
As you sped up and for a moment I was flying we were laughing and the sun made gold cascade around us
Maybe I don’t have such a hard time writing about that curve
And more a hard time thinking about you because
Good god do I love myself more
Now that you’re gone
I have a hard time writing about your eyes
Because I’ve blocked them from my memory
I remember your hair though
You dyed it a frightening highlighter green and blue
You’re roommates called you Captain Planet
I have a hard time writing about the bed
That I helped you buy and build and clothe
That I tangled myself in the sheets of
When you had to go to work at three am
That bed was warm and soft
And the last time I came over to your house I spent the night with your roommate not you
Because she actually wanted me around
And you were asleep when we came inside
And even when you saw me in the morning you didn’t say goodbye
So I have a hard time writing about that curve
Your eyes
The bed
And the fact that every time you touched my shoulder I didn't feel that flash of joy that I get when I look in her eyes.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
We rode a fine line
between
Kink
and
Abuse
And it scares me that
I couldn't tell the difference
until
You
broke
Me
Mar 26, 2019
Mar 26, 2019 at 5:32 AM UTC
There's that moment
Between
Being awake
And
Being asleep
When you think you've been lying conscious for hours.
And you look at the clock.
And it's been
Four
Whole
Minutes.
Sep 10, 2017
Sep 10, 2017 at 3:30 AM UTC
I guess there must be a god
Or something like him.
Because you are alive
And thats awesome
But two other men are dead
So I gotta ask
God. If you exist for real
Why are those who do good
The ones injured
While the one who inflicts
Stands tall.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
I was watching the fish a few days ago, and decided to join them.
Their flickering fins slowly glinted as the sun sank beside me.
I came prepared: purple swimsuit, goggles, and a glowstick
But I left behind a life preserver.
It was on the shore, just in case, but as my feet graced the waves it no longer felt necessary to take precautions.
The golden red hues faded as the water got cold and I continued to drift.
My glowstick glanced off scales and shells, and my hair dye ran like blood around me.
Humans aren't supposed to be able to live without oxygen.
The body will shut down in at least four minutes with severe brain damage, and the possibility of death,
But how can one think of that in moments like this?
Even when all that is left is green, man-made light,
Waiting two seconds in murky liquid, the water comes alive.
Anemones waved as I sunk deeper, their glow penetrating the black.
Schools of fish twirled between my thighs as I landed softly on a coral bed, then slipped off into the sand.
Bubbles brewed from my nose.
Eyes burning as my gaze roved
I was blind in the darkness.
My chest began to tighten,
But who cared?
I had been watching fish, and found myself instead.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 5:02 AM UTC
I wish I could feel the burn of your lips as they press into mine,
But all my mind can comprehend is the tight pain as your knife digs into the broken edges of my already curving spine.
Your eyes are sunken and hollow, and they match the shell that used to contain my heart.
Blood still pumps, brown and mudded, a lack of oxygen from your lips ******* the life out of my body as they burn
As your hand twists and my dark blood trails like thick syrup, coating your fingers.
Your cold fingers, almost as cold as my feet, circulation slowing, face paling but you don't move away.
You seem to enjoy it as you pull me closer, crushing my arms with your own, muffling the beating of my heart as it slows.
I wish you could feel the cracks in my lips but I forgot, and put on that lipstick you like so much this morning.
Didn't think that you would take it as a sign.
As a sign that like that cold day behind the tree I would accept a kiss
As a sign that I would giggle as you surprised me with another three weeks later
Or a sign that, when I said it was over, when I turned around to get on the bus I would be waiting for you to spin me around.
Because I wasn't.
I don't wish I could feel your lips burn as you kiss me.
I wish I could ignore the heat and focus on the dimming sensation as your knife pulls out,
But then again
I guess I never was any good at noticing when I was killing myself for you
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
The orange and blue flames of candlelight memories from birthdays come and gone illuminate brown stains from spilt ink and paper cuts on your family's hardwood desk.
The soft mahogany that carried the weight of library books with cracked bindings, that weathered broken glass, finger scratches and runny noses.
The writing table that saw crayons and watercolors fade into pen and ink and now your old pencil with the grooves worn down right where you're used to so you can hold it without cramps as you scrawl through notebook after notebook and bite your tongue.
You can't let the heat of words burn inside your throat as you sew your mouth shut with the red thread your mom used to patch your overalls with in fifth grade.
The sagging brown and blue jeans with baby yellow fabric covering that rip in the knee where the neighborhood boys pulled your ponytails and knocked you down.
When you felt your palms scrape against the concrete and you were finally enlightened to the fact that they don't tease because they like you, but because they like to see you in pain.
Never forget that morning when that pain finally ****** you off enough that when you rode your purple “girls bike” up to the rack before saying bye to your daddy you purposefully ran your back tire over a puddle to splash the group's new ninja turtle shoes.
The sneakers your neighbor had and you were jealous of because you wear a dress and he wouldn't let you borrow because they weren't gonna match, no matter if you were trying to climb the fence in his backyard and your bare feet got scraped in the end.
The stinging of the metal matches the stinging in your palms from being tripped and the stinging in your fingertips from the days of paper cuts from making collages on that old wood desk and you write.
You write loud enough that the scratching of your graphite on paper echoes around the room and you drown out slamming doors and harsh conversations.
Your fingers are as quick as the automatic whisk that you always turned up to high when your mommy would turn around, just so you could watch the cookie batter get just… too… close… to the edge of the bowl before shutting it off in the nick of time.
In a split second moment your lead breaks and you stare blankly at the scribbled mangled words that travel in circles around your book.
And the embarrassment and anger and understanding that this world's filled with ******** wells up behind your blank eyes and bubbles in between your teeth, seeping through the red thread.
It dribbles down your chin and creates a pool atop of the grey words the clear saliva of sadness eats away at the paper and wood like acid.
Imagine what it was doing to your stomach, but don't think too much about it, just pick up the safety scissors and ignore the ocean inside.
Those scissors aren't just for paper snowflakes anymore, they're not plastic in pretty colors, no now they're heavy and metal and cold in your hands.
They're built for adults, for greying and melting faces, for the weight of a world that ignores beautiful broken bottles on the sidewalk and walks by a cute cat,
Or says “It's Just A Girl Thing.”
Or “Boys Will Be Boys.”
And they make you wish you were back blowing bubbles in your treehouse as you sneak a juice box and pretending you're the captain of a pirate ship.
Instead of sitting at this desk with a broken pencil and dripping face.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 5:43 PM UTC
When summer’s light is gone and winter’s come,
The birds all sing and soon they will take flight.
A soft and soothing beating of a drum
Will play as Pan brings in the coming night.
As fast as summer’s light has gone away,
So flees the love you have for even I.
Oh how I wish that I could make you stay,
But like a bird you must return and fly.
In truth all that I wish is for your joy
And if you need be free then hasten, go.
I beg you please, my heart do not destroy
It could not weather any beat or blow.
I beg you, venture on your way my dear
But never please forget who you’ve left here.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 12:18 PM UTC
“Nasty Woman”
Olivia Leap
In a society where a man can rise to power with statements like:
"What did these geniuses expect when they put men & women together?"
When asked about military ****** assault,
When he can claim that: "the look obviously matters...like you wouldn't have your job if you weren't beautiful."
When talking to female reporters,
And against powerful women, more qualified than him, one who decides to try and move against him, he mentions her husband "disagreed" with some of her positions,
As if the husband had say over her actions.
I am proud of my gender.
I am a Nasty Woman.
I am female and I am strong.
I will not accept that one who is so offensive and unqualified as this has any power over my mind.
I am a Nasty Woman,
And I will stand with my fellow transgender sisters, my cis sisters, my queer and gay and bisexual sisters, my immigrant sisters, my black sisters, my muslim sisters, my minority sisters, my oppressed sisters and we will not step down.
I am a Nasty Woman
And I will not back down when approached by racists and sexists who believe that the future is somehow going to be better.
I am a Nasty Woman
Who will not forget that a man can say he would look a gorgeous woman in: "the fat, ugly face of hers" with no repercussions,
That a man obviously racist, fascist and misogynistic can somehow sweep through our country and rise to power.
I am a Nasty Woman
Who is disgusted that someone who states he would date his own daughter if they weren't related
Is praised as a powerful man.
I am a Nasty Woman
Who is deeply upset that people even think of supporting
A man who states that all that matters is to have: "a young, and beautiful, piece of *** beside you
That a man who obviously shows indifference and disgust for those different than himself and his ideal views, has so much power.
I am a Nasty Woman,
And I refuse to respect someone who has so little respect for me.
I am a Nasty Woman
And I can't wait for one year, two years, four years from now when
The people will take back our country from a ***** grabber"
Who couldn't respectfully hold a debate without dropping the "nasty woman" card,
Which I am proud to now carry
And will carry forever
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 10:06 PM UTC
I lost inspiration
Let it leak out of my boat
And into my lake.
But I've dredged it up with my broken net
And found myself again.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 3:38 PM UTC