breakneck speed
a hummingbird
heart beats
war drums
rolling snare
wings spent
lay and recover
heavy like sand
steady drums
breathing deeply
focus on now
broke, tired
a song on repeat
my instinct
I fly away
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 12:21 AM UTC
a song plays
it taps my shoulder
with it's slow sadness
my spine curls like old wallpaper
in a house I knew
with eyes closed
it rings like a phone
like hearing your own name
I answer the call
memories flood
and it smells like dust
like a photo album
you only recognize
and do not remember
the books you hold
your mother's voice
as you tun the worn pages
like she's still reading to you
it feels like
sidewalk chalk
and walking home
home
the word is a hot stove
I try not to touch anymore
it just burns
I never learn
I open the door
evoking melancholy
just to see blurry faces
to hear my younger self
laugh about things
like funny faces
and late bedtimes
the smoke alarms ring out
the song ends
but the burn lingers
and stings throughout the day
I'm sitting on wet tile
water dripping from my hair
in darkness
under warm water
the pressure beats my skin
like the rain
it echoes in my hollow head
like drums do
and my mind is numb
empty
like a house we moved out of
like a home I never understood
like a stove left on
burning it down
every time I listen to that song
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 4:01 AM UTC
I've written the word "you" countless times
to represent countless people
on countless pages
as I've aged I've become unable to place
exactly which "you"
belonged to who
because
Y
O
U
was easier to write down
than the names of the subjects
I knew I shouldn't be proud of
they all blur together
the faces
the letters
the shame I ignored
the love that I forced
the chapters in my life
I was too ashamed to identify
but one thing is clear
through all the past-poetry-opaqueness:
I know I'll never struggle to place
the word for the sound of rain
the laugh that sounds like a hearth
the effortless extemporization
the sound of your beating heart
June.
even the four letters of your own name
could never do justice
to the beauty of your being
that no word can capture
no dialect, no vernacular
you are more complex
than language
than pen on paper
and that is why I love writing about you
June,
I know I'll never get it right
but god ****
do I want to try.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 1:21 AM UTC
I long to touch you
To feel your arms wrap around me
Like a blanket on a car ride home
Breathing in a familiar scent
A comforting scent
Breathing in my home
My legs wrapping around yours
Hearing the rain on the window like splatter paint
Smelling ash and wood and moss
Your strong arms wrapped around my waist
Tracing the curve of my side with your finger
Like underlining your favorite line in a book you've read ten times
I don't want to fall asleep and miss it
I want you
Always
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 12:11 AM UTC
I am seeping in scalding water
like a tea bag leaking bitter dark red
leaking my consciousness
through the hole in my chest
when left alone to seep
reality pushes itself out of my mind
through every pore in my body
my grasp of what is real slips away
leaving behind trails of color
wisps of crimson and regret
but beautiful in a quiet way
a girl sitting at the bottom of a tea cup
hugging her skinned knees
leaking the darkest color
you've ever seen
I am seeping in scalding water
but at least I can feel it
burning me alive
I bet it all looks so peaceful when looking at it from above
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
I would draw
but my hands shake
I would speak
but my throat is sore
I would get up
but then I’d have to let go
of the comfort of my room
the only think I can do
is write
and so I write
about anything
about everything
about washing machines
and my spin cycle mind
empty bottles that look full
and the disappointment they cause
puppets forcably dancing on strings
and how I’m not the one moving myself
about flowers picked and left to die
and the temporary, forgettable beauty
I would speak
but I can’t find the right words
I would
but I can't
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
I met you
I love you
I'm ******
I haven't had enough
I'm ******
I'll never grow tired of you
I'm ******
I'll never leave
unless you want me to
I'm ******
I love you
I'm ******
you love me right back,
I'm ******
I think of a future with you
****
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Everyone told me drugs were bad
and I should just stay away from them
because the thugs and the other people who do drugs
are addicts and scary and hopeless and numb
and addiction is something you can't outrun
so I swore to myself when I was young
that I'd never become one
my father chose alcohol to make himself big
he told me "they don't leave like your mother did"
it was so confusing as an eight year old kid
to hide everything out of instinct
because he gets so loud at me when he drinks
and I couldn't wait for when he passed out so he can't cuss
and that was every night of his weekends with us
put on a movie for your daughters and get drunk
it was something we accepted and didn't discuss
now I'm sixteen
and for less than a week
and I forgot to take my doses
and now the world is out of focus
I'm under some kind of hypnosis
I'm explosive, I'm psychosis
feeling little to no emotion
all because I forgot to notice
the bottle of Wellbutrin
so for days my head just spins
and I'm coming down from it
and withdrawals are ********
and in this haze I feel like the vicim
and it's all in my head so I can't cure the sickness
and this illusion of stability is so ******* twisted
because without these drugs I become so distant
it's the only thing in my life that stays consistent
and I realize that this is what they meant by "addiction."
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
being close to you
reminds me of years before it started
I'd catching myself staring,
tugging my attention to something else
distracting myself from the way
you shift your weight
from one leg to the other
now you lay beside me
and pull me close you
the way you laugh
rocks me like the sea
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 4:13 PM UTC
I'd accepted this loneliness by calling it independence
in pathetic attempts to paint my vices gold
while wading through this tar of a life
with lightless eyes and a stomach full of stones
I never thought to fathom the day
where the filth clouding my pools of vision
would settle and reveal clear lucidity
and open my eyes like finding religion
feeling the stones in my stomach turn into birds
I'm tearing out of and shedding this skin
being washed clean by the autumn rain and feeling
the weight of insecurity and bitterness change
I used to see only a pale, sickly grey
never knowing the privilege of off-white
then you come up to me with your still, wild waters
and reflect the whole ******* sky
Oct 9, 2015
Oct 9, 2015 at 7:16 PM UTC