ashley-kinnick - Hello Poetry

I listen to your old voicemails before I go to sleep because I want to remember the way your voice sounded when you loved me. I keep having these dreams about you that cut deeper than anything because even in moments that I’m not aware — you’re still there. I hate you and I love you and I hate you but hate is just a repressed form of love. I often get so wrapped up in the thought of you that I think I might’ve made you up. You seem so intangible — like a blur of a memory. I think, too often and too much about "us" and what that even means to me. I think I'm probably a chore for you. Something that you entertain because you feel a responsibility for or maybe you pity me so you answer my calls. This hurts worse then if you were to not answer at all. I wonder why I feel so debilitatingly in love with this person who seemingly feels nothing at all and if there’s a switch that I can turn it off with. I wish I felt numb like you. I wish I could go one second without obsessing over the thought of you. I wish every time I heard the doorbell ring I didn’t get a rush of nervous energy at the thought that it could be you or when I look out the window I wasn’t desparately trying to picture the way your car looked in front of my house. I wish I wasn't clinging to a time when your name brought me immeasurable joy or trying to remember the way the light hit your face or the way your arms felt around my waist. I wish I wasn't always searching for you in everything like a lost child — searching for you in places I know you'll never be. I wish I didn't panic at the thought of losing memories or the way you smell or the face you make when you concentrate. I wish the urge to see you and to call you didn't feel like something I'm not supposed to need. And I wish my heart didn’t leap out of my chest anytime I wondered about who’s getting the affection that I desperately miss. Most of all, I wish I just felt okay even if for a day.

0

Jan 27, 2017

Jan 27, 2017 at 9:25 PM UTC

i.e. 26

I listen to your old voicemails before I go to sleep because I want to remember the way your voice sounded when you loved me. I keep having these dreams about you that cut deeper than anything because even in moments that I’m not aware — you’re still there. I hate you and I love you and I hate you but hate is just a repressed form of love. I often get so wrapped up in the thought of you that I think I might’ve made you up. You seem so intangible — like a blur of a memory. I think, too often and too much about "us" and what that even means to me. I think I'm probably a chore for you. Something that you entertain because you feel a responsibility for or maybe you pity me so you answer my calls. This hurts worse then if you were to not answer at all. I wonder why I feel so debilitatingly in love with this person who seemingly feels nothing at all and if there’s a switch that I can turn it off with. I wish I felt numb like you. I wish I could go one second without obsessing over the thought of you. I wish every time I heard the doorbell ring I didn’t get a rush of nervous energy at the thought that it could be you or when I look out the window I wasn’t desparately trying to picture the way your car looked in front of my house. I wish I wasn't clinging to a time when your name brought me immeasurable joy or trying to remember the way the light hit your face or the way your arms felt around my waist. I wish I wasn't always searching for you in everything like a lost child — searching for you in places I know you'll never be. I wish I didn't panic at the thought of losing memories or the way you smell or the face you make when you concentrate. I wish the urge to see you and to call you didn't feel like something I'm not supposed to need. And I wish my heart didn’t leap out of my chest anytime I wondered about who’s getting the affection that I desperately miss. Most of all, I wish I just felt okay even if for a day.

1

the rifle versus the latter existential counterparts exhuming i held your head up when you were alone

0

Sep 10, 2016

Sep 10, 2016 at 10:38 PM UTC

september

the rifle versus the latter existential counterparts exhuming i held your head up when you were alone

5

i haven't heard you laugh in weeks; is just the same song with a different beat

0

Jul 26, 2016

Jul 26, 2016 at 3:44 AM UTC

sync

i haven't heard you laugh in weeks; is just the same song with a different beat

2

inject me with every insecurity deny me my foresight scoop my eye sockets dry with silver spoons from childhood plight turn the corners of my mouth upward with pins in stifling approvable of your apathy rip my teeth from root so i cannot express grief and wild unrest burn me of my tongue make it so i struggle to say your name twist and mangle my wrists bend my fingers back (one, two, three) listen to the splintering bone the intoxicating frailty listen like your favorite song the fading circulation in hi-fi stereo (on repeat) bend my back for you turn away as my spine snaps under weight from mild neglect unravel my nerves string them like a guitar play me a discord cut me open with sharp words and leave me exposed slide my discs until i’m weak in the knees string me up by my ankles and sever my feet to gain inches on me peel back my skin bind my veins tether them to floor boards and ideas of leaving me watch as the desperation seeps from me tangle my hair and pull it back like weighty curtains from my skull cap crack me open unspool my brains re-wire my circuitry introduce color then reverse it back blow your breath into my ear let it circle and suffocate me will me not to feel it will only complicate me pull the desperation from the air my fixed, heavy rain cloud drape me with uncertainty cover me in soot and paint me a burden set me on fire leave a thought let it continue to escape me you dot your “i’s” with crippling intensity dripping in heartfelt symphonies my velveteen, you are a looming aftertaste a foundation a voracious hunger to set roots deep within bone

0

May 22, 2016

May 22, 2016 at 10:17 PM UTC

discord

inject me with every insecurity deny me my foresight scoop my eye sockets dry with silver spoons from childhood plight turn the corners of my mouth upward with pins in stifling approvable of your apathy rip my teeth from root so i cannot express grief and wild unrest burn me of my tongue make it so i struggle to say your name twist and mangle my wrists bend my fingers back (one, two, three) listen to the splintering bone the intoxicating frailty listen like your favorite song the fading circulation in hi-fi stereo (on repeat) bend my back for you turn away as my spine snaps under weight from mild neglect unravel my nerves string them like a guitar play me a discord cut me open with sharp words and leave me exposed slide my discs until i’m weak in the knees string me up by my ankles and sever my feet to gain inches on me peel back my skin bind my veins tether them to floor boards and ideas of leaving me watch as the desperation seeps from me tangle my hair and pull it back like weighty curtains from my skull cap crack me open unspool my brains re-wire my circuitry introduce color then reverse it back blow your breath into my ear let it circle and suffocate me will me not to feel it will only complicate me pull the desperation from the air my fixed, heavy rain cloud drape me with uncertainty cover me in soot and paint me a burden set me on fire leave a thought let it continue to escape me you dot your “i’s” with crippling intensity dripping in heartfelt symphonies my velveteen, you are a looming aftertaste a foundation a voracious hunger to set roots deep within bone

57

i bite my nails to the bone and when i bleed it reminds me that i am home in a vessel made of stardust and controlled chaos i am a tangled thought a misrepresentation of misplaced passion a piece of paper with an inkblot made to diagnose a series of theories about the distinction between them and us

0

Aug 29, 2015

Aug 29, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC

v.

i bite my nails to the bone and when i bleed it reminds me that i am home in a vessel made of stardust and controlled chaos i am a tangled thought a misrepresentation of misplaced passion a piece of paper with an inkblot made to diagnose a series of theories about the distinction between them and us

8

Your favorite coffee cup still sits on the counter untouched.

0

Jun 9, 2015

Jun 9, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC

Untitled

Your favorite coffee cup still sits on the counter untouched.

1

I am panicking. I am patching up and desperately traveling back to a distant recollection of a foggy memory. I am feverishly writing everything. Time is passing “us” by so quickly. I talk to the walls and pretend it’s you. I listen to old songs and think of things you used to. I stare at your things and will them to move. There is such a stillness around me. An awareness that most things we occupy our space with are lifeless. I often feel hollow. There is one thing that I drill into my head each morning that my feet hit the floor — you aren’t here anymore. I focus heavily on dates and times even though I realize time is leaving you behind.

0

Jun 7, 2015

Jun 7, 2015 at 5:20 PM UTC

A theory:

I am panicking. I am patching up and desperately traveling back to a distant recollection of a foggy memory. I am feverishly writing everything. Time is passing “us” by so quickly. I talk to the walls and pretend it’s you. I listen to old songs and think of things you used to. I stare at your things and will them to move. There is such a stillness around me. An awareness that most things we occupy our space with are lifeless. I often feel hollow. There is one thing that I drill into my head each morning that my feet hit the floor — you aren’t here anymore. I focus heavily on dates and times even though I realize time is leaving you behind.

4

black coffee 6 a.m. old garages tomato sandwiches toy planes still in the plastic Margaritaville on casette tape Sunday's are car dealership days tabasco sauce on every dish two-bite pinchers when we were kids every boy's name is Mitch

0

May 27, 2015

May 27, 2015 at 1:04 AM UTC

epoch

black coffee 6 a.m. old garages tomato sandwiches toy planes still in the plastic Margaritaville on casette tape Sunday's are car dealership days tabasco sauce on every dish two-bite pinchers when we were kids every boy's name is Mitch

10

i am chewing my nails to the bone. bound to the routine of growing old.

0

May 17, 2015

May 17, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC

bone

i am chewing my nails to the bone. bound to the routine of growing old.

2

Every 23rd I listen to the last voicemail you left me. And I'll sit and recount each moment until you're burned into my memory. But it never gets any easier, in fact, it only gets harder to breathe.

0

Apr 1, 2015

Apr 1, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC

intangibility

Every 23rd I listen to the last voicemail you left me. And I'll sit and recount each moment until you're burned into my memory. But it never gets any easier, in fact, it only gets harder to breathe.

1