you always had a big heart
and weak, tiny guts.
someone could rip out your hair--
"stop it!"
pull away
they won't stop
your big heart made you stay,
your tiny gut conjuring no more than guilt
and dull eyes when he says he loves you
five foot two,
small enough to feel powerless
big enough to feel like you could do more,
more than lie there on your back.
but you've got tiny, tiny guts
and your heart had wilted
you left but he's not gone.
he's lingering where your body sees no sun
and in your throat when you feel you're choking.
he touched everything.
he touched every part of your life
why are you so afraid
when you've got such a big, strong heart?
why are you so cold with that blanket wrapped around you?
why can't you sleep when you're exhausted?
why can't you eat when you're hungry?
why can't you cry when you're sad?
now it's a new day in a new city
in a new home with a new love.
why can't you go outside?
why can't she touch you?
why do you have nightmares
when you've smiled all day?
you're a work in progress!
let her hold you,
and let your big heart pump blood
to your tiny, tiny guts
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 8:11 PM UTC
your name hits me at night
like a slap to the face,
the six letters of your name
sitting like lead on the part of my chest
where you used to sleep,
even when you weren't near.
i don't dream of you anymore;
maybe my mind is done with you
eating away at it like a parasite,
killing it from the inside.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
i don't know your name
but i can already hear myself whispering it
when you wrap yourself around me
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 4:58 AM UTC
i'll wait for your hands
which will read my skin like braille,
saying "touch me,
hold me like you'd hold the full moon,
with sunshine on it,
glowing for you."
then you'll read my body like a map,
you'll see the sensations
running through my chest
to my limbs:
"kiss here,
stroke here,
wrap your arms tightly here."
my body will say this to you
in a language i know you speak.
i'll breathe deeply with you
because i want to share the air--
can you believe our lungs
surround the same world?
then i'll kiss you
on your x-marks-the-spot,
and you'll whisper with every exhale,
"never stop.
you know who i am."
then we will fall asleep
because we are home.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 4:12 AM UTC
i hate when i can feel
my pulse in my fingertips,
like my blood is trying to escape
but can't flee from the reality of my skin
(which is only a trick to make us believe
we're whole in ways we're not,
solid in ways we cannot translate
to thoughts and feelings and words
without making us believe that somehow
the curve of a body is real enough
to provoke a stare,
or permit a touch,
or a whole-hearted feeling of need)
which is a thing that dies in the sun
and tells us it's cold to be alone.
when was the last time
i felt hope in my body?
why can't my blood run to that?
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
in the dead or night you're the most alive
(like a thick gasp in my throat
which lingers beyond my breaths)
(yet not in my mind
where the other thoughts fight)
you've lasted longer than my hair and my nails,
nearly as long as the cells in my bones.
how do you live past your presence?
(and how can i bottle you up,
keep you in a jar on the top of my shelf
where i can pull you down on a rainy day?)
how do you speak when your tongue is at rest?
how do your stir me when you are asleep?
how do my dreams know to bring me to you
so we can speak in the same air?
how do you live in me?
(how are you here right now?)
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
i remember when someone kissed my hipbones last:
it was years ago, in the dark.
you don't know now how long it's lasted,
like a disease eating away at the bone
where the sweet warmth of kisses should be.
i miss the way you pulled me to your core,
yet your hands were hooks,
puncturing me
"catching me"
like stealing a fish from the place where it is free,
only to cut its head off,
scale it,
filet it,
until it's easy to eat.
i'm in a bed like a net that has protected me
from falling into a canyon of fear,
drowning in its tumultuous rivers
which beat me against rocks.
when i can sleep again
maybe i'll find someone else to join me,
someone who will let go when their kisses are dry.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
my favorite color is the color of your skin,
like the amber with bugs in it
(except there are no bugs,
just pieces of your mind and your heart
which--thank god--i can't carve out
and put on a pendent,
just to have something touching me at night,
when my sheets are too thin to warm me
but too thick to let my lungs breathe with ease
the cold air which strikes me like a bullet to the throat,
unlike your arms around me
which hold me like a rib cage,
breathing with me in synchronized whispers)
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 9:15 AM UTC
lately i've been dreaming
of someone i don't know
pulling me closer
to all the warm places
that i do not care for
on you
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
sometimes you're a sickness when you're inside of me,
sometimes you're a cure
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 8:51 AM UTC