jesse-f-kowalski - Hello Poetry

It finally happened. The thing that's been building up for months. We could all sense it coming. Like a thunderstorm in the middle of summer; the air is thick with pressure, and through the warmth, you can feel the cold. The others keep trying to reconcile with her, but I'm done. Some things aren't meant to last, and clearly, based on her refusal to apologise, this was never meant to start. I can't be bothered to chase after this friendship, so it clearly never meant much to either of us. I'm happy. I thought this would be the start of the spiral, but no. As though she was the reason for my sad.

0

6d ago

May 29, 2026 at 8:16 AM UTC

It

It finally happened. The thing that's been building up for months. We could all sense it coming. Like a thunderstorm in the middle of summer; the air is thick with pressure, and through the warmth, you can feel the cold. The others keep trying to reconcile with her, but I'm done. Some things aren't meant to last, and clearly, based on her refusal to apologise, this was never meant to start. I can't be bothered to chase after this friendship, so it clearly never meant much to either of us. I'm happy. I thought this would be the start of the spiral, but no. As though she was the reason for my sad.

18

Even the way she texts tells me she is unbothered by me now. As though—no. She most definitely is recanting our sisterhood. By the second. It’s sad, it really is. It leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth, and I understand why I had a gut feeling about ignoring her message earlier. I don’t like this, at all, and just thinking about it all gives me butterflies, but the kind that have been eaten, their wings all torn and broken and rusty and decaying. I hate this, actually. It’s like bedhead, or having a badhead. I’ll always believe in sleeping on big decisions or feelings, but this leaves me with acid reflux every second of every day, especially the morning. No point in giving yourself bedhead if it won’t ever go away, you can just stay awake. No point in having a badhead before bed and after bed if none of it matters, you can just forget about it. We haven’t really stayed in touch, and I sort of knew this would happen. I want it back, all of it; or do I? Only my mother could answer that. But she’s the one who told me to avoid you in the first place, after I told her you hated me at first. I’ll grin and bear it, for a second.

0

May 20

May 20, 2026 at 4:21 PM UTC

bedhead

Even the way she texts tells me she is unbothered by me now. As though—no. She most definitely is recanting our sisterhood. By the second. It’s sad, it really is. It leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth, and I understand why I had a gut feeling about ignoring her message earlier. I don’t like this, at all, and just thinking about it all gives me butterflies, but the kind that have been eaten, their wings all torn and broken and rusty and decaying. I hate this, actually. It’s like bedhead, or having a badhead. I’ll always believe in sleeping on big decisions or feelings, but this leaves me with acid reflux every second of every day, especially the morning. No point in giving yourself bedhead if it won’t ever go away, you can just stay awake. No point in having a badhead before bed and after bed if none of it matters, you can just forget about it. We haven’t really stayed in touch, and I sort of knew this would happen. I want it back, all of it; or do I? Only my mother could answer that. But she’s the one who told me to avoid you in the first place, after I told her you hated me at first. I’ll grin and bear it, for a second.

37

Sat on a park bench alone. I found peace in the upset months ago, but it was like I knew it would wear off at some point. Is that point now? The twins are asking whether heaven is found in Las Vegas, or in the soul. I say, in others. Humans are social creatures, and therefore, creatures of habit. Who are we if we don't self destruct? It's like returning home after a school trip. I always used to cry, even before I'd stepped off the bus. There was something wrong with me, even back then. Age eight. The smell of my dog disgusts me, entices me. In moments like these, I once again remember memento mori. I don't need her skull, I just need her. Does heaven really exist? I would say yes, as a comfort, but who am I if not uncomfortable? So, I say, no. It's frightening, really, but I become more at peace with that idea the more time falls by. Now Martha's asking me about a beach. I don't want to be alone, lonely. I feel slightly better getting these feelings out, but that ache will be in my bones as long as the worms don't get to me. My dog is eleven, or seventy-seven. It's thanks to my mother she has survived this long. I feel ungrateful thinking about such things, but I need to acknowledge these things. Memento mori is what makes us human, as well as the loneliness and the capitalism. My nails have turned orange, on the ends. I don't know what... to do. Anymore.

0

May 5

May 5, 2026 at 12:29 PM UTC

memento

Sat on a park bench alone. I found peace in the upset months ago, but it was like I knew it would wear off at some point. Is that point now? The twins are asking whether heaven is found in Las Vegas, or in the soul. I say, in others. Humans are social creatures, and therefore, creatures of habit. Who are we if we don't self destruct? It's like returning home after a school trip. I always used to cry, even before I'd stepped off the bus. There was something wrong with me, even back then. Age eight. The smell of my dog disgusts me, entices me. In moments like these, I once again remember memento mori. I don't need her skull, I just need her. Does heaven really exist? I would say yes, as a comfort, but who am I if not uncomfortable? So, I say, no. It's frightening, really, but I become more at peace with that idea the more time falls by. Now Martha's asking me about a beach. I don't want to be alone, lonely. I feel slightly better getting these feelings out, but that ache will be in my bones as long as the worms don't get to me. My dog is eleven, or seventy-seven. It's thanks to my mother she has survived this long. I feel ungrateful thinking about such things, but I need to acknowledge these things. Memento mori is what makes us human, as well as the loneliness and the capitalism. My nails have turned orange, on the ends. I don't know what... to do. Anymore.

37

The sun smells like lemons from where I am standing. I can see the broken mirror burning, giving off misty fumes. It's time like these I am grateful for the animals. Mine. The rain puts the flame out; I turn my back again, finally. I can see the yellow, the burnt-orange, the reflection more clearly from here. Give me peace, it begins on your plate. Power in the people, forever. Remember, it was they who revolted in 1789. Not just one. I will not rest until he's lost his throne. Who? Every man. Up is down, the left is right. Break the cycle, break the coffee. The citrus sun is left, as always. To be human is to be inherently rudimentary. Remember. The book can always be re-read.

0

May 3

May 3, 2026 at 8:03 AM UTC

the citrus sun is left, as always.

The sun smells like lemons from where I am standing. I can see the broken mirror burning, giving off misty fumes. It's time like these I am grateful for the animals. Mine. The rain puts the flame out; I turn my back again, finally. I can see the yellow, the burnt-orange, the reflection more clearly from here. Give me peace, it begins on your plate. Power in the people, forever. Remember, it was they who revolted in 1789. Not just one. I will not rest until he's lost his throne. Who? Every man. Up is down, the left is right. Break the cycle, break the coffee. The citrus sun is left, as always. To be human is to be inherently rudimentary. Remember. The book can always be re-read.

22

I will crawl under the porch to die. I will want to be alone. The bugs can bother me and no one else. When they reach my hippocampus, they will taste the dew of early mornings spent hunting for easter eggs in the garden; April 5th. They will immerse themselves so much that they begin to think themselves as me. The bog-man scenario. Which one is me? Did I really die alone? Am I the worm? Early worm catches the bird. Early memory catches the innocent. Early death catches the porch. Will I die alone, as every living creature on earth does?

0

Mar 24

Mar 24, 2026 at 4:03 PM UTC

the bugs

I will crawl under the porch to die. I will want to be alone. The bugs can bother me and no one else. When they reach my hippocampus, they will taste the dew of early mornings spent hunting for easter eggs in the garden; April 5th. They will immerse themselves so much that they begin to think themselves as me. The bog-man scenario. Which one is me? Did I really die alone? Am I the worm? Early worm catches the bird. Early memory catches the innocent. Early death catches the porch. Will I die alone, as every living creature on earth does?

21

The first time I tasted fear was in the ocean. It seems such a silly fear but once you are in there you understand. That feeling that there is something underneath you but you cannot see for the life of you. It makes you itch all over. You cannot get out fast enough. Venice could be eaten by the water-dwelling creatures at any time, by you, but we, humans, would never see it happen. We would ask in years to come "What is Venice? Was it a goddess? Another name for Mother Earth?" Because everything is lost to the dirt.

0

Dec 2, 2025

Dec 2, 2025 at 11:40 AM UTC

Fear

The first time I tasted fear was in the ocean. It seems such a silly fear but once you are in there you understand. That feeling that there is something underneath you but you cannot see for the life of you. It makes you itch all over. You cannot get out fast enough. Venice could be eaten by the water-dwelling creatures at any time, by you, but we, humans, would never see it happen. We would ask in years to come "What is Venice? Was it a goddess? Another name for Mother Earth?" Because everything is lost to the dirt.

19

I have the dream. My place at the lunch table is cold beneath me. My feet are colder. I am out when they laugh and it forms a bubble of steel around them. Fort Knox, I suppose. This girl has come and ****** the sturdy, stone-cold chair out from under me. She doesn't utter a word and they let her. The action turns my feet to ice blocks; I resume my slipping from September, a dying forget-me-not in hand. I feel I have no solid tether now, no solid anchor to them anymore. How did it get like this? How did the dream end? Can I turn up the heating? Can I pick the flower back up? Head pressed to stone by her. The floor creates a draft cold enough to seep through to my marrow and my fried nerves. How do I carve it out, Dolores?

0

Oct 18, 2025

Oct 18, 2025 at 4:39 PM UTC

The dream

I have the dream. My place at the lunch table is cold beneath me. My feet are colder. I am out when they laugh and it forms a bubble of steel around them. Fort Knox, I suppose. This girl has come and ****** the sturdy, stone-cold chair out from under me. She doesn't utter a word and they let her. The action turns my feet to ice blocks; I resume my slipping from September, a dying forget-me-not in hand. I feel I have no solid tether now, no solid anchor to them anymore. How did it get like this? How did the dream end? Can I turn up the heating? Can I pick the flower back up? Head pressed to stone by her. The floor creates a draft cold enough to seep through to my marrow and my fried nerves. How do I carve it out, Dolores?

28

chipped at the seams. cracked into something new. the cycle of a poorly-potted plant. never enough sunlight. never enough water. never enough minerals. yellow, then dead. grow again, then yellow. enigma—nothing close to one. all open for those who want, rather than need. those who take and wear different lives like clothes then shed like old skin falling off the bone. only want you for a time, and when the skin becomes loose, it's uncomfortable. can't stand being in it. shed like they need a new life to wear. cycle. repeat. over again. today and tomorrow. how can people live like this, i say, as i desperately search for which version of myself i will wear that day. who am i around? oh, this one will fit fine. enigma. many tries—one combination. but who can find it?

0

Jul 23, 2025

Jul 23, 2025 at 10:01 AM UTC

enigma

chipped at the seams. cracked into something new. the cycle of a poorly-potted plant. never enough sunlight. never enough water. never enough minerals. yellow, then dead. grow again, then yellow. enigma—nothing close to one. all open for those who want, rather than need. those who take and wear different lives like clothes then shed like old skin falling off the bone. only want you for a time, and when the skin becomes loose, it's uncomfortable. can't stand being in it. shed like they need a new life to wear. cycle. repeat. over again. today and tomorrow. how can people live like this, i say, as i desperately search for which version of myself i will wear that day. who am i around? oh, this one will fit fine. enigma. many tries—one combination. but who can find it?

23

if you need me, my door is always closed. you’re evil and you lie, so when you die, i won’t shed a tear. go back to the old places and see if i cry there. but i would rather not go there; i won’t cry because i knew even then. you said you hated me at first; a different chapter is still the same book so why grow new leaves when you can bask in the decay and detest change?

0

Jul 17, 2025

Jul 17, 2025 at 11:26 AM UTC

back to the old place

if you need me, my door is always closed. you’re evil and you lie, so when you die, i won’t shed a tear. go back to the old places and see if i cry there. but i would rather not go there; i won’t cry because i knew even then. you said you hated me at first; a different chapter is still the same book so why grow new leaves when you can bask in the decay and detest change?

12

you think it's gone. and even though you're 'over' it, you turn quickly when faced with it. it never truly goes. if you get it once, you get it twice. twice, then thrice. then every time winter rears his ugly head. try to cry in the shower, so when nothing falls, the water from the shower head will satisfy the hunger to feel something dripping. something is loose and it makes you happy. how sick is that?

0

May 30, 2025

May 30, 2025 at 11:14 AM UTC

it is happening again

you think it's gone. and even though you're 'over' it, you turn quickly when faced with it. it never truly goes. if you get it once, you get it twice. twice, then thrice. then every time winter rears his ugly head. try to cry in the shower, so when nothing falls, the water from the shower head will satisfy the hunger to feel something dripping. something is loose and it makes you happy. how sick is that?

19