I woke up one day and breathed in your cologne
even though only one side of the bed was warm
even though only one side of the bed left
the shadows of dreams and fingerprints of nightmares.
And later, when my bed is made and both sides are cold and pressed,
I heard your laugh when I pushed my
hair behind my ear, distant.
close.
Soft, even though my windows are locked and frozen shut.
Evident, even though my breakfast
is a black cup of coffee
and humming to myself.
But I put my hair back in front of my ears and go to work.
Where I taste your words
with breaths in and out.
I turn them over, sweet, truthful,
unlike my black coffee that I use
to drown out, to block out,
to
close
out
what is true on my tongue,
between my teeth and sitting on my lips,
ever whispering without sound.
And I can't stop breaking apart your
words in my mouth
so I can taste each
syllable.
But they are dull, old tastes that I beg to stay fresh,
but you are not here.
And I cannot
swallow
your
perfect
words.
They tease and tickle my throat.
sweet.
But unreachable, no matter
how many times I try to unravel
the truths on my tongue.
By the end of the day, on my couch-I am tired from your laugh
between the strands of my hair,
but an unreachable shadow;
and I am tired from your words
that are sugary and ****
and distant because I put them
in my mouth months ago.
And even though I want to close my eyes,
I do not.
Because your face on the pillow next to me
taunts me behind my eyelids
and your fingers on my belly
are just beyond reach when I lay down
and your breath in my ear
is too cold on my ear.
And if I let it ,your memory will
never let me live.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 2:09 PM UTC
Sometimes the rain doesn't just roll off my skin.
Instead of water,
sheets of razors pour from the sky,
slicing my soul into something unrecognizable.
And it makes me feel more
than I have let myself in weeks.
Sharp and cold and harsh
juxtaposing itself from my warm naivety
and shut eyes.
So much damage to the inside
that my skin prickles from underneath
and I shutter at the downpour of metal.
And I beg it to stop,
beg it to let me sleep again,
and curse the sky for making me breathe through stripped lungs.
Nothing so violent has ever been so quiet.
Nothing so dark has ever felt so familiar.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
She's a garden of gentle strength,
raised from rose gardens,
raised from fields.
She mutters soft words that move mountains
and hums songs that mold hearts.
She's a girl that cannot be held for too long,
who changes the world with a kiss,
with a stare.
How can she, peppered with scars,
followed by night, be so warm?
And perhaps her skin isn't soft for what would that do in war?
And her nails are clipped short
But she has never frozen, never ran cold in her hot veins.
A girl from wisdom, feet planted in the dirt:
dainty, soft; powerful, strong.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 6:55 PM UTC
Tuck them in your spine or the space between your ribs,
perhaps behind your kneecaps but never on your lips.
Because they may wreck your soul and cloud your eyes,
but they won't hurt anyone else if they're kept inside.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
I've been told that I am too broken to be loved,
too damaged,
too crooked and bent
for someone to cherish.
But perhaps it is on those very edges,
those very ragged edges,
that loves snags and is held.
So before you tell me that no one can find beauty in my chipped soul, look at your own perfect life and ask yourself if love has ever crept into the crevices and hinged itself on smooth skin.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
Shells coming and going,
Locked in to movement of the waves,
Crushed by the magnitude of their strength
They float in and out of beaches,
Leaving their mark on passersby,
Only to be forgotten with the next wave of treasures
They long to be found,
Crave to be picked up,
Ache to tell their story
Until at last, they're swept out to sea,
To the next beach which it will call home,
And into the life of another who will see its beauty.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 10:06 AM UTC
Do you see me, staring, holding my heart in my outstretched hands?
Do you hear me, whispering, voicing my feelings into your covered ears?
Do you feel me, grazing, brushing my fingertips across your fist?
Do you realize that I'm falling, whirling, tumbling head over heals, or are you immune to love's blindness?
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
I wouldn't say my demons are my friends.
I don't invite them to parties or
look for them in the mirror.
But tormenting has become natural, second nature,
me.
And after a long day in the sun,
I always return to their ragged claws and ***** paws.
They scratch at my skin until I bleed and cannot sleep.
Scars cover my body but what...what would I be without them?
How could I dare spend a night without dragging nails across my throat?
They are not my friends.
But I listen anyways for the tapings behind the wall.
But I don't nurse my wounds.
But I don't fight the when they reach out.
But I like the color of my blood.
My demons aren't my friends, but neither am I.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:52 AM UTC
Destroy me softly in the dead of night.
Rip apart my thoughts with gentle words
and steady hands.
Do not question yourself,
I promise not to protest in return.
Ask me where my words are hidden,
how I bury them
and dig to them without pause so that my muscles won't have time to push you back.
Unearth my dreams,
ransack my heart until we are both covered in blood and truth.
I don't care how much it hurts,
turn my mind inside out and
force
every
thought into your palms.
Pry open those rusty hinges
because heaven knows I am just as clueless as you are to what lies behind them.
And I know, I know, I know
that what is underneath my skin is raw and pink.
Tell me how it tastes.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
When it's dark in the city,
I like to take off my glasses so that everything blurs together
And I can't tell where the lines start and end.
It's like the world becomes a painting,
One with globs of oil coming off the canvas
And you can make it look like anything you want it to be.
And if I twist my neck around,
I can see everything that I can imagine.
Like one where someone is in love with me and if I don't want blood under my tongue,
There doesn't have to be.
One where I can walk surely and I don't have to take off my glasses to feel safe.
I can touch the halos around the street lamps with my fingertips because of the peaks of paint and I can sleep at night because of the dark sky.
Sometimes you are there and sometimes I am alone and the same painting can mean a million things.
A million beautiful things if I let it.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC