amber-s - Hello Poetry

like a deer’s head stuffed on shaky walls, my eyes have become bulged, my tongue sedated. my hunter wore no gear. padded quietly underneath the yellow moon. he found my limbs first, yanking and pulling while my fingers burned. my hunter had a smile like LSD, his lips had lines shaky and uncontrolled. he pulled me deep, deep, deep into the forest, between oaks and pines and the ground tasted like what i wanted to forget. like blood. like ***** like nothing. my hunter had stroked me. such. a. prize. such. a. prize. such. a. prize. he attempted to recite poetry, but his voice sounded muffled, placing emphasis on the wrong words. my hunter wrapped my locks around my throat, and pulled and yanked and pulled. it all smelled like fire. my wrists vomited violet flowers. i had wanted to show him. but my hunter chopped. me. up. such a face. my legs, gushing pink and red and white. my arms tinged yellow. my head rests above his bed, and i watch and watch and watch my teeth won’t stop chomping

0

Jun 28, 2016

Jun 28, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC

prey.

like a deer’s head stuffed on shaky walls, my eyes have become bulged, my tongue sedated. my hunter wore no gear. padded quietly underneath the yellow moon. he found my limbs first, yanking and pulling while my fingers burned. my hunter had a smile like LSD, his lips had lines shaky and uncontrolled. he pulled me deep, deep, deep into the forest, between oaks and pines and the ground tasted like what i wanted to forget. like blood. like ***** like nothing. my hunter had stroked me. such. a. prize. such. a. prize. such. a. prize. he attempted to recite poetry, but his voice sounded muffled, placing emphasis on the wrong words. my hunter wrapped my locks around my throat, and pulled and yanked and pulled. it all smelled like fire. my wrists vomited violet flowers. i had wanted to show him. but my hunter chopped. me. up. such a face. my legs, gushing pink and red and white. my arms tinged yellow. my head rests above his bed, and i watch and watch and watch my teeth won’t stop chomping

30

i am aching and my tongue tastes like your ******* ignorance. like salt with ***** i want to ***** your fingers prodded me until i thought they reached my spine. take the pieces out, i have already lost the stability of my own canvas. you are a man with unshaken wrists, who's legs known only how to walk away, your speech like writing on pavements, never lasting for too long. once you had covered me head to toe with marks. bruises. scratches. i had become the rag doll. you threw while your lips shivered, your hand on my throat no longer felt like peace. i cannot stop thinking of your fingers in me, searching for a lie, or a truth, or a ******* resemblance. nose breathing in the fumes of tears, sweat and mistakes. for some seconds, i had believed your teeth wanted to chew out flowers, not ******* thorns. in the morning, your face, i no longer knew. you had become the monster i had seen so many times before. the monster who says i miss you yet can't look at you in public spaces. the monster who only calls you beautiful when your legs are wrapped around him. i have known this monster. time and time and time again.

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Jun 4, 2016

Jun 4, 2016 at 9:55 AM UTC

hello, old friend.

i am aching and my tongue tastes like your ******* ignorance. like salt with ***** i want to ***** your fingers prodded me until i thought they reached my spine. take the pieces out, i have already lost the stability of my own canvas. you are a man with unshaken wrists, who's legs known only how to walk away, your speech like writing on pavements, never lasting for too long. once you had covered me head to toe with marks. bruises. scratches. i had become the rag doll. you threw while your lips shivered, your hand on my throat no longer felt like peace. i cannot stop thinking of your fingers in me, searching for a lie, or a truth, or a ******* resemblance. nose breathing in the fumes of tears, sweat and mistakes. for some seconds, i had believed your teeth wanted to chew out flowers, not ******* thorns. in the morning, your face, i no longer knew. you had become the monster i had seen so many times before. the monster who says i miss you yet can't look at you in public spaces. the monster who only calls you beautiful when your legs are wrapped around him. i have known this monster. time and time and time again.

28

I have been obsessed with staring at people’s ring fingers. I have been obsessed with seeing if there are rings, and if there are, why? And if there isn’t, why? I have been obsessed with the concept of marriage. Of babies. Of living together forever and ever with just one person. The thought tastes like milk washed down with soap. But I cannot stop staring at people’s hands. I want to ask how they knew. Was there a switch that was flipped? Was there music loud and thudding in their ears? How did they know that when they’re old with wrinkles under their eyes they’ll still want to kiss the other’s lips? I check off my lovers with a sharpie on my wrists. I wonder if any of them thought I was the one. The sharpie bleeds and stains my shirt. A man told me once he loved me within a month of knowing me. Was that true, never ending love? He left cigarette ash in my car and didn’t know where to put his fingers. He had wanted a house, a kid, a dog. In coffee shops, in grocery stores, in hallways, I am staring at people’s fingers. Some are smudged, some are dry with peeling skin, some are softly pink, and when I see the golden or silver bands milky soap sits underneath my throat. I am checking my wrists.

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Apr 21, 2016

Apr 21, 2016 at 2:18 PM UTC

forever & ever & ever

I have been obsessed with staring at people’s ring fingers. I have been obsessed with seeing if there are rings, and if there are, why? And if there isn’t, why? I have been obsessed with the concept of marriage. Of babies. Of living together forever and ever with just one person. The thought tastes like milk washed down with soap. But I cannot stop staring at people’s hands. I want to ask how they knew. Was there a switch that was flipped? Was there music loud and thudding in their ears? How did they know that when they’re old with wrinkles under their eyes they’ll still want to kiss the other’s lips? I check off my lovers with a sharpie on my wrists. I wonder if any of them thought I was the one. The sharpie bleeds and stains my shirt. A man told me once he loved me within a month of knowing me. Was that true, never ending love? He left cigarette ash in my car and didn’t know where to put his fingers. He had wanted a house, a kid, a dog. In coffee shops, in grocery stores, in hallways, I am staring at people’s fingers. Some are smudged, some are dry with peeling skin, some are softly pink, and when I see the golden or silver bands milky soap sits underneath my throat. I am checking my wrists.

5

i've known the boys like him, the boys with the gentle eyelashes and the lip petals and spikes. he touches my hair, twirls it in his fingers. i am always nothing more to them. i want to be earthquakes and avalanches, yet i fold, becoming the beers in their guts, the ash on their tongues. but the way his tongue finds my pelvic bones, how his calluses kiss my bruises. his scent echoes inside my pillows, denial like ***** bordering my throat thick. the boys want my skin, to flay and wear it. i am a prize, shiny and golden, and he is licking my insides, my blood and guts. like wine, on his mouth, dripping down his chest. i see how he stares at others, calculating and timing, but in the end i am the one, bent over, the one he says he loves. (to **** and i wonder if this will always be this. nights tasting like cider and *** knees scabbed and bleeding and scabbed and bleeding. he never touches me outside the bedroom, his fingers glued to the bike handles. i want to cut him open and see what's really inside.

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Apr 16, 2016

Apr 16, 2016 at 4:40 AM UTC

boys

i've known the boys like him, the boys with the gentle eyelashes and the lip petals and spikes. he touches my hair, twirls it in his fingers. i am always nothing more to them. i want to be earthquakes and avalanches, yet i fold, becoming the beers in their guts, the ash on their tongues. but the way his tongue finds my pelvic bones, how his calluses kiss my bruises. his scent echoes inside my pillows, denial like ***** bordering my throat thick. the boys want my skin, to flay and wear it. i am a prize, shiny and golden, and he is licking my insides, my blood and guts. like wine, on his mouth, dripping down his chest. i see how he stares at others, calculating and timing, but in the end i am the one, bent over, the one he says he loves. (to **** and i wonder if this will always be this. nights tasting like cider and *** knees scabbed and bleeding and scabbed and bleeding. he never touches me outside the bedroom, his fingers glued to the bike handles. i want to cut him open and see what's really inside.

28

we never talk about the ******* afterward. it's hidden in the dust on my sheets, his liquids still fresh, his cologne stamped on my pillowcases, instead he asks about work, mentions his exhaustion, doesn't bring up the marks he always leaves, the one on my arm like a birthmark, the small red ones on my back, the ones on my hips like roses left out for too long last night his fingers pressed on my throat and he kept asking how i liked it. i was drunk, he was drunk and when he said he loved ******* me i almost thought he said he loved me. in my room we spoke of what we always spoke of, books and PhD's, of classmates, of futures, and interrupting our conversation his lips found mine, in a hungry kind of way, he never really liked to kiss. it'll be two weeks until i see him again, perhaps longer, and our talks will be briefer, and i am hoping my scratches are long and violent on his back, i hope his skull is stinging from my pulls. we **** like we'll never **** again, and maybe i haven't had this passion in a long while, because i know he'll never be mine. his fingers on my throat felt like freedom, and it's in those hours between late night and early morning we are nothing but skin, his fingers on my throat, his fingers on my throat, his fingers on my throat, i'm choking on my spit

0

Mar 23, 2016

Mar 23, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC

white lie

we never talk about the ******* afterward. it's hidden in the dust on my sheets, his liquids still fresh, his cologne stamped on my pillowcases, instead he asks about work, mentions his exhaustion, doesn't bring up the marks he always leaves, the one on my arm like a birthmark, the small red ones on my back, the ones on my hips like roses left out for too long last night his fingers pressed on my throat and he kept asking how i liked it. i was drunk, he was drunk and when he said he loved ******* me i almost thought he said he loved me. in my room we spoke of what we always spoke of, books and PhD's, of classmates, of futures, and interrupting our conversation his lips found mine, in a hungry kind of way, he never really liked to kiss. it'll be two weeks until i see him again, perhaps longer, and our talks will be briefer, and i am hoping my scratches are long and violent on his back, i hope his skull is stinging from my pulls. we **** like we'll never **** again, and maybe i haven't had this passion in a long while, because i know he'll never be mine. his fingers on my throat felt like freedom, and it's in those hours between late night and early morning we are nothing but skin, his fingers on my throat, his fingers on my throat, his fingers on my throat, i'm choking on my spit

30

i've seen your face, recently, popped up like that nightmare i keep having where my body is left in lukewarm sweat. your eyes are still as green as stems, and i want to upchuck upchuck upchuckupchuckupchuck it's funny how when i was 15 you were my king, i would have crawled hands and knees, blisters popping like your car speeding, impressing the ladies with your hair flicks and tricks and i know now i am still that 15 ****** dress up girl to you, only i've filled out, filled in, know where to put the eyeliner, make it waterproof, knowing how to speak, my tongue is whipping and sharpening the last time we spoke we didn't speak. you didn't let me. you shoved the drinks down my throat so fast the cards were blurry and you waited oh so patiently. 'you're such a bad girl', you said. with your manhood prodding me, you spoke mean. you never spoke nice. i wonder if i'll always love and hate you. for so long you made me question myself. maybe i shouldn't have worn that, or said that, or placed my foot a certain way or maybe i showed my teeth too much or maybe i was being too flirty, or maybe not enough. these self doubts became my condolences, and even after we were 'friends', you never looked at me the same way. i had to be 'friends' with you because my friends loved you, even after i told them what you did to me. i see your face like beers shoved in the back of the fridge, and i am so mad at you, so mad, so mad, so mad, you've taken my guts and thrown them into the ******* sun. i was fifteen, you were almost eighteen you and took my limbs and broke them all. i was prettiest to you on my knees, but baby i am the most beautiful when i'm stabbing you you you you repeatedly.

0

Mar 20, 2016

Mar 20, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC

ophelia's revenge

i've seen your face, recently, popped up like that nightmare i keep having where my body is left in lukewarm sweat. your eyes are still as green as stems, and i want to upchuck upchuck upchuckupchuckupchuck it's funny how when i was 15 you were my king, i would have crawled hands and knees, blisters popping like your car speeding, impressing the ladies with your hair flicks and tricks and i know now i am still that 15 ****** dress up girl to you, only i've filled out, filled in, know where to put the eyeliner, make it waterproof, knowing how to speak, my tongue is whipping and sharpening the last time we spoke we didn't speak. you didn't let me. you shoved the drinks down my throat so fast the cards were blurry and you waited oh so patiently. 'you're such a bad girl', you said. with your manhood prodding me, you spoke mean. you never spoke nice. i wonder if i'll always love and hate you. for so long you made me question myself. maybe i shouldn't have worn that, or said that, or placed my foot a certain way or maybe i showed my teeth too much or maybe i was being too flirty, or maybe not enough. these self doubts became my condolences, and even after we were 'friends', you never looked at me the same way. i had to be 'friends' with you because my friends loved you, even after i told them what you did to me. i see your face like beers shoved in the back of the fridge, and i am so mad at you, so mad, so mad, so mad, you've taken my guts and thrown them into the ******* sun. i was fifteen, you were almost eighteen you and took my limbs and broke them all. i was prettiest to you on my knees, but baby i am the most beautiful when i'm stabbing you you you you repeatedly.

24

i have a lump under my armpit, thick and pressured, i want to bite it off, throw it inside a bin it's coming to me when i am feeling bumps and growths in my frontal lobes. as i walk into the sunshine, i can no longer see the road or the buildings or the twigs in her hair. mom had her breast removed. i cannot bare to think about me without any hair. these words that i want in the worlds books, will instead sink into my veins and have no meaning but instead let me be my own Ophelia, and i will link daisies in my hair and drown singing no song but my own my fingers are pressing against the wall, but all i have is callouses.

0

Mar 20, 2016

Mar 20, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC

Untitled

i have a lump under my armpit, thick and pressured, i want to bite it off, throw it inside a bin it's coming to me when i am feeling bumps and growths in my frontal lobes. as i walk into the sunshine, i can no longer see the road or the buildings or the twigs in her hair. mom had her breast removed. i cannot bare to think about me without any hair. these words that i want in the worlds books, will instead sink into my veins and have no meaning but instead let me be my own Ophelia, and i will link daisies in my hair and drown singing no song but my own my fingers are pressing against the wall, but all i have is callouses.

15

i am tired, and my bones are sore and at times i want to curl up within the ground and have the tufts of grass and dried up leaves call me home. at moments i am so tired of others, their teeth, too much shown and how it all seems like paint still trying to dry. i am tired of men waggling their lips, and i am tired of women always defending and i am tired of people pushing my veins inwards. i feel like weeds trying to grow in botanical gardens. i cannot fit. i cannot speak enough or be quiet enough. i am shoved into outlines designed for others. i do not know where my fingers should lie, and when i am drunk and screaming i (almost) feel the most alive, but then when i am surrounded by history in beautifully spaced architecture, i am (almost) alive. where do i start and where do i end. why do bruises on me look like jewelry? i am nothing. but i am you. if i bite his shoulders hard enough, i can find bones. i can find the Great Wall of China. these lines on hundred year old parchment has become my salvation. i want to be alone, yet i want his nails digging me up. i want to hear her tongue on her teeth, yet my lungs can't expand enough.

0

Feb 25, 2016

Feb 25, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC

shook

i am tired, and my bones are sore and at times i want to curl up within the ground and have the tufts of grass and dried up leaves call me home. at moments i am so tired of others, their teeth, too much shown and how it all seems like paint still trying to dry. i am tired of men waggling their lips, and i am tired of women always defending and i am tired of people pushing my veins inwards. i feel like weeds trying to grow in botanical gardens. i cannot fit. i cannot speak enough or be quiet enough. i am shoved into outlines designed for others. i do not know where my fingers should lie, and when i am drunk and screaming i (almost) feel the most alive, but then when i am surrounded by history in beautifully spaced architecture, i am (almost) alive. where do i start and where do i end. why do bruises on me look like jewelry? i am nothing. but i am you. if i bite his shoulders hard enough, i can find bones. i can find the Great Wall of China. these lines on hundred year old parchment has become my salvation. i want to be alone, yet i want his nails digging me up. i want to hear her tongue on her teeth, yet my lungs can't expand enough.

31

why must my heart be like feathers falling too quickly? i cannot help but feel and love and feel and love and it is all too much. he has been in my dreams, a shadow who kisses my eyebrows and walks with patience besides me. i believe this is the flesh him even though i know. his questions are nothing of substance, and i know he is eager to slip my veil off again and again and again. but can't he see my rib bones poking through my chest? i am in love with his tongue, and perhaps nothing else. he reads poetry but holds no compassion. eager to lick but quick to bite my lips together. i am so much more than my open legs. i am so much more than my ripped tights and rimmed eyes. but he stares at me like fish in tanks. eyes too wide and mouth agape. i am not the food placed on the surface, waiting to be swallowed and digested. when i try to pry open his chest, he pushes me down. lathers me in silver until my throat is hollow. he is a writer but refuses to see the words in people.

0

Feb 4, 2016

Feb 4, 2016 at 1:41 PM UTC

fish bone

why must my heart be like feathers falling too quickly? i cannot help but feel and love and feel and love and it is all too much. he has been in my dreams, a shadow who kisses my eyebrows and walks with patience besides me. i believe this is the flesh him even though i know. his questions are nothing of substance, and i know he is eager to slip my veil off again and again and again. but can't he see my rib bones poking through my chest? i am in love with his tongue, and perhaps nothing else. he reads poetry but holds no compassion. eager to lick but quick to bite my lips together. i am so much more than my open legs. i am so much more than my ripped tights and rimmed eyes. but he stares at me like fish in tanks. eyes too wide and mouth agape. i am not the food placed on the surface, waiting to be swallowed and digested. when i try to pry open his chest, he pushes me down. lathers me in silver until my throat is hollow. he is a writer but refuses to see the words in people.

30

he is running down my legs. sticky inside my thighs. like the glue you used in elementary school. the kind that peeled off your finger tips. he is inside of me, dampening my underwear, seeping on my fingerprints. i do not know if he likes me, but his touches feel almost like love. but it's not love. i am the girl, sticky with him and attempting to recreate my spine. i am the girl, marks like warning signs on my ******* but all i can say is (harder). i want, this girl to jump inside that lake and drown. and wake baptized, fresh, alive. he is inside my hair. he likes my hair. he loves my hair. but this is not love. i tell him to pull, but he is too gentle. i am the girl spilling out her teeth. and you are the boy chewing up my guts. it is not love. he is the foreign boy who smells, not like the ads or the films or novels. he smells like early mornings and that is where i am always finding his lips. he is sinking in my intestines, writhing and thriving, he is the upchuck threatening beneath my molars. i am the girl crashing hard and burning diamonds. within this room he has shredded me. it is not love. he is not love. but it is something. something. something.

0

Jan 27, 2016

Jan 27, 2016 at 4:41 PM UTC

lust, love, love, lust.

he is running down my legs. sticky inside my thighs. like the glue you used in elementary school. the kind that peeled off your finger tips. he is inside of me, dampening my underwear, seeping on my fingerprints. i do not know if he likes me, but his touches feel almost like love. but it's not love. i am the girl, sticky with him and attempting to recreate my spine. i am the girl, marks like warning signs on my ******* but all i can say is (harder). i want, this girl to jump inside that lake and drown. and wake baptized, fresh, alive. he is inside my hair. he likes my hair. he loves my hair. but this is not love. i tell him to pull, but he is too gentle. i am the girl spilling out her teeth. and you are the boy chewing up my guts. it is not love. he is the foreign boy who smells, not like the ads or the films or novels. he smells like early mornings and that is where i am always finding his lips. he is sinking in my intestines, writhing and thriving, he is the upchuck threatening beneath my molars. i am the girl crashing hard and burning diamonds. within this room he has shredded me. it is not love. he is not love. but it is something. something. something.

41