i have racked my mind
trying to figure this whole thing out
the staying, the going
the threads we claim hold us here
& the people who've stopped to play a tune on them
i sometimes relate it
to waking up in waist deep snow
in our former selves
the us we wish we could give one another
the children we've sat on the shelves
trapped, like the looks
we leave behind in snow globes
i sometimes imagine ships
dragging the bottom to the sea of "me"
for sleep & pieces of my old self
to sell to the new one
like history doesn't repeat itself
it gets me wondering
if you too want an apology from the rain
or if you dream of burning family photo albums
and wearing the ashes like perfume
if you're anything like me
how i hope god chokes
on memories of me blowing out candles as a child
i know i shouldn't reference my reader
but don't you know, the only difference
between alone & lonely is you?
that if my hands could talk
the only thing they'd be able to say
is "dear god we've missed you"
and how can you tell me it isn't love
when even the rain refuses to fall
in places where i've kissed you
i remember the day
you found my smile at a yard sale
it reminds me of how you'll leave
i wonder if when you go
you'll tell yourself
the person in the rear view mirror
is closer than they appear
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:15 AM UTC
you were like my favorite sweater
but
I couldn't help but pull
at all your loose threads
so i could watch you unravel
stitch by stitch
now i'm left wishing that i had learned how to sew
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 10:29 AM UTC
Antarctic stares from Arizona eyes; white knuckles, heavy blue pores.
No, nothing changed you anymore.
Rapid touches to the abdomen, the sound of violins breathed in your mind
and he's not usually like this, you said, "He's actually really kind."
What didn't **** you, left you broken.
And you had misspoken, as your words slurred into tears that never fell,
after a fifth of alcohol and half a night of hell,
as you revealed that you thought without him you were nothing at all.
You whispered this
while I cried to you for the last time through a cellular call,
through an invisible, static, insurmountable wall.
And I disagreed because I had seen it all:
heavy blues and brave bloodshot brown eyes,
"Please don't, I think there's more to you than you realize."
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
I am trapped in a house in my mind with shattered windows and pictures
of us glued to the walls and the sound of your voice telling me you don't love me.
I am sinking into the ground and I can't move but your voice follows me reminding me that I am loveless
and poison
I am poison and you drank from me and I am so sorry
I want to be a flower
a beautiful soft harmless flower
I want to love something without making it squirm and wither WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME I can't breathe without you I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of emptiness and it is so loud.
I remember when you told me you'd show me the moon but I think the moon had fled and the sky above the cloud is empty like me.
I wonder if you'll ever find it
and if you do will it make your lips slip into a smile at the thought of me or if you'll send it crashing down.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
your touch melts my skin and bone until there is nothing between you and my soul.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
what you need to understand about me is that i am nothing more than misplaced passion and a pair of blindly swinging fists that tremble with unrighteous anger. so allow me to apologize in advance for the fires my subconscious starts. i am a clumsy compilation of ill-suited lines that will never see life in your poetry. at least, not like they used to. you are a book filled with with pictures i never got to take, and every day i am forced to sit idly by while she starts a new roll of film. the missile crisis reincarnate is inside my chest, so forgive me for not being able to control when i shake. forgive me for fumbling with syntax so crassly. i know better than to spew hate and call it poetry. please understand that the endless series of sinking ships in my head makes it difficult to form coherent thought. my thoughts, will **** me, if your absence doesn't first. i think about your hands more than i am proud to admit, and when i picture them reaching for her i feel so sick. i'm sorry. i am so sorry that i haven't yet learned how to moderate the volcano in my throat. i'm so sorry for spitting fire with my eyes closed. forgive me for confusing anger with bravery and burning down too many houses to count. in my misguided thirst for blood i weaponized memories and threw them like daggers in every direction, but the only one being hit is me. i am so tired of bleeding, i am tired of this one-sided war, i am tired of being a war. i tried so hard to be catharsis personified but i have to face the reality that my arms would only hold you like a grave. i loved you like rainwater, and lost you like time. you were never mine. you were never mine. you were never mine. i have to say that to myself every day because it eases the pain of watching you belong to anyone else. but i can't ignore the surplus of "what if's" wreaking havoc in my consciousness. i think that's why i get so angry when i picture you laughing with her instead of me. i am blocking out the memory of the night you told me my laughter could cure your sadness. ******* it. i am trapped in a nightmare where the walls of the home we built are lined with photographs of her. this is why i can't breathe at the thought of her smiling when the flash goes off. they say that nothing good stays; i have never been good at leaving, so i guess that makes sense. you once referred to me as an anxious mess you would spend the rest of your life cleaning up, and i can't get that out of my head. i hope you know, that after everything, i would still sit and collect dust on a shelf in your house forever, if that's what you wanted me to do. but i know it's not, so i'll go back to apologizing. i'm sorry that my rage doesn't have an off switch. i'm sorry for being a literal spitfire. i'm sorry for being an earthquake under her glass slippers. i'm sorry that my mouth is a loaded gun and that i have ****** aim. i swear to god i'm trying not to shoot so often but this is one of the hardest things i have ever done. so until i learn control i will burn in silence with the safety on.
- m.f.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:06 PM UTC
I've seen the way one cut can turn into a hundred,
I've watched how my sisters pure and innocent skin became scarred and troubled.
I watched how one cut spread like poison ivy across her body.
and it wasn't tragically beautiful.
I watched how she turned against herself,
her arms became battlefields
every mark became another piece of herself that she could no longer identify
and it wasn't tragically beautiful,
it was haunting
it was tragic
but it was not beautiful.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 8:04 PM UTC