You are cancer cells and
Broken bones and
Shards of glass and
A burnt down home, you
Drowned me out so I couldn't breathe, you
Pulled the rug from right under me, but
I found a life raft out at sea and
Saved myself from everything
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
You were a wave of cancer cells and broken bones that came crashing on me. I finally got my head up and I'm floating on.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
I wonder what it would be like to not leave a note
And have you piece me together
And if I could watch you do it I wonder what you would say
Would you paint me in warm colors, always happy, always caring, never selfish?
Or would you speak to me in hatred through the thin fabric of life and death that we so willfully hang upon
Would those selfish emotions absorb you like they did me
Would you hate me more than I hate myself
Because you loved me for you or because you loved me for me
I don't know if either is better
I'm not always happy, I don't always care, and I am selfish
You don't know me, I don’t think you ever will
And I don't want you to, I am evil
I am cynical, I am angry, I am the opposite of empathy
And I think under all that ******** you are too
Maybe it'd be a good lesson for you to see me drift into a quantum fluff
And become all the blips that crowd your radar with existential superstition
And I hope that it's quick, I don't want to see anything flash in front of my eyes
I do not want to see my life pass me by
I don't even want to say goodbye
I just want to be.. No thing.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:58 PM UTC
I’ve been conditioned
like freshly washed hair
for years
do not offend
unless the end of the sentence is “I’m sorry”
let the shoes and boots and heels of many make indents on you
like blueprints of demurity swaddled in insecurity
kept alive by the blurry ideas i once held about femininity
because i couldn't be a girl if the words that flew from my chords
were anything but rosy
ring around the rosie,
pockets full of suppose he was to compliment your ****
when walking down a thorough-fair
busy people back and forth and grandmas with wrinkled sweaters
thank you
muttered from chapped lips and an even more chapped psyche
why must i keep my wits about to not risk making him angry
that was not complimentary but i am fearful he might spit my words back onto me
in the form of fists and slurs and honestly
im tired
of being the sidewalk beneath the feet of creeps
i am the sky and the trees and the moon
but i do not speak with the wisdom of travelling seeds
i speak with the warmth and subtlty of freshly microwaved milk
like soft silk i wish i could tatter
i wish venom soaked words could be spit in response to your “compliments”
but i would rather let you diminish me for the few moments it takes to objectify me
than to risk angering your inner beast and suffering the consequences of meninism or masculinism
whatever the word is this week
i will not be another number
ink soaked paper red with the monthly bloodshed of the sisters
every second is another unspeakable act
i see women
with tongues as round and large as planets
and tonsils the size of solar systems
birthing new galaxies in the words they speak
and shooting comets like fiery ***** of comebacks
when that slack-jawed fool sat and wished and drooled
into his monthly issue of mens rights magazine
she tore down the even minuscule belief he could have had that he had the right to comment on her body
in three seconds his pride, and entitlement
shifted into shame
and embarrassment
and i envy these women
because the only time i can take back my power
is when i am standing in front of a room
speaking rhymes and metaphors preaching independence and strength
to a group of people who now think i am a hero
i am not a hero
i put my shoes on one foot at a time
and i still manage to forget a couple days of birth control here and there
and i cant stand up for myself
in the moments after an attack i retreat into my latte and pray today will not be the day the male dominated society takes my power away
because i am small
and though i am growing every day
i still can only pray
that one way or another
i will be able to be as strong a woman as my sisters
my mother
and take back my power
and speak not with the beauty of a flower
but with the sharpness of a bumblebees sting
and one more thing
your compliments
are not complimentary
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
I know these winter days get you down,
and they make you feel cold.
Just remember that loving you,
and being loved by you,
will always be the warmest feeling I’ll ever have.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
I used to think that you were the right person at the wrong time. Now that I’ve had more time to think about, you were the wrong person and the right time.
Because in the fragile state I was in, you taught me that I wasn’t enough.
But after a while I realized that I had to learn that you could be in love with someone and they will still take you for granted.
I had to learn those lessons before I could learn to love myself.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Flowers are characterized by their petals,
A rose, however, is more than just it’s red petals.
Once the petals are removed from a rose,
destroying it’s outer shell,
the inside is visible to world
The rose is vulnerable,
But it is still beautiful
A new array of green and yellow colors
Thee only way to see what lies beneath is to destroy the petals.
The rose is much like a person
People put on masks
A person can become vulnerable and shed their mask. This sometimes destroys a person
Roses can’t grow their petals back once they have all been plucked off
A person can always recover
A rose cannot do anything but perish.
People are like roses, and roses are what people become if they don’t want to be built back up.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:43 PM UTC
i have polaroid’s on my wall
of all the boys i used to kiss.
there are ***** dishes in the sink
and i think this will be the year that
i pretend to love people just because
there’s nothing else to do.
i spend my time reading poems about girls
who have broken hearts and smoke cigarettes.
i spend my time reading poems about girls
who rip their ribcage open just to find out
that there is nothing left inside except
empty beer bottles.
i get drunk and slip into silk
and realize that i am a combination of
1/3 love and 2/3 champagne bubbles
and i think to myself,
"maybe this is what it’s like to be
the hurricane instead of the rain."
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 8:38 PM UTC
I'm absolutely terrified.
Petrified.
Mortified.
Of falling in love with you.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 10:37 PM UTC