I’ve left my heart
in 4 places
The first,
in your eyes- silvery
like two pieces of sea glass,
like two never coming back’s,
like two question marks
The second,
in your warmth
an aura of fireplaces
crackling with all the times I wish I could touch you,
you are so so so far away, and I still need you, want your lips so badly
The third,
in your familiarity
the sound of gasping for air between laughs,
the image of your face,
the incessant shaking of a polaroid
The fourth,
in a place
where electricity buzzes underneath the sidewalk
and pretty girls, beautiful boys
walk around like sculpture skulls,
where music lives and thrives and flourishes,
where I will find you-
a place to finally rest my heart on
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
There’s this oil rig town covered with a conglomerate of tall silver towers emitting a constant stream of smoke, in the daytime it looks like piece of sidewalk, but in the nighttime it looks like New York City’s younger sister with bright eyes and smoke swirling from a genie’s lamp and I swear everything destructive looks beautiful at night, including you.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
your eyelashes
bat like they’re waving hello flirtatiously,
and our shoulders brush
like two lovers stealing a final kiss,
we laugh like mountains moving
and thunder rolling
and we talk like the static on an old radio
my heart has tuned (doomed) itself to
a never-ending replay of you humming underneath your breath,
breathe everything you are into me
like remorseful resuscitation
you ask me
whether I like the boy with Friday nights in his eyes,
and I act demure,
like my skin doesn't get warm whenever you smile,
like my hands don’t yearn to be entangled with yours,
like I don"t get pulled into everything you are
my friends will poke and ****
to make me profess
“you love him!”
and I just shake my head,
because this is a love best kept
in a box at the bottom of my chest
where it is heavy and secure,
free from outsider’s ears
on Saturday nights, I will send winky faces
and blush at other boys
and I will tell you all about it once I crawl into bed
and listen to your voice wrap around me like a home,
you have become my home,
sweet home
on Sunday mornings, I will picture her
spreading her love on you like a rose pink watercolor
and kissing you like fast cars and green green green lights
and you, looking at her
all wide-eyed and bold fists
and I will ache
but I will amend.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
You could die for it--
love,
or refuse it altogether
and know nothing
except the urgency
of youth. Men
have been
solitary
for ages
carrying the
stoniest of hearts
in their broad chests
while we women
begin too early
brush the brown leaves
from our shoulders, go
from bloom to fade
as soon as
we see the sunrise
We let our eyes go first
Then there is the limp lolling
of our hearts from side to side
the tongue we cut away
the blind kiss on the backlash of night
the giving giving giving of skin
As women
we blindly wish
past the ****** of passion
as we vanish into a world of men
whose ribcages we were scraped from
Perhaps we are born of seeds
our essence crawling up the stem
to feed the bees.
Perhaps
every flower you see
is a woman
and when
she's in bloom
and when she is blooming
red
and when her leaves are wingbeats
of green in the autumn wind
beating wings of green, yes
even as the wind tries to humiliate her
it fails because
she's in love
and only she would die for it
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
I am from loud voices. Ones that never hear you ask for a cup of water, a breath of fresh air, or a hand to hold. I am from wrinkly grandmas without grandpas because they are far above Indiana, meeting God with a warm sunshine smile-- finally forgiven. From cigarette smoke and the phrase “I’ll stop when I’m skinny”, "no, I don't believe you I know we’re all addicted to something." We have to remind ourselves of how easily we perish. From big scoops of ice cream while my dad tells me that my grandmother used to be beautiful. From women who only talk about grocery store prices because they have spent their whole lives at the checkout counter, waiting for a man to tell them they were worth more than celery sticks and strawberry wine. From boyfriends and girlfriends, cousins that take their date to the shed and kiss strawberry wine soaked lips and whisper, “I need you. Please do not leave me.” like a family heirloom. We've always confused the words need and love, they roll off tongues like sinister synonyms. From boots that were made to walk out. Leave. And then come back, dressed in apologies. From becoming an apology. From boys that look at my younger cousin, my babygirl and call her baby. They make her forget the times she was brave, kiss her so hard that she forgets that I believe in her, that God believes in her. From wide-eyed girls that fall in love with boys whose first word was "take". From curly hair and soft edges. From mistakes that no one forgets. From men who wear anger like a wedding ring, punch fists into shed doors and jaws. From sweet tea and, I know I sound like a country song, the best apple pie you've ever tasted. From exchanging recipes like tokens of appreciation. From never quite knowing how to say goodbye. From passing city limits with tears in your eyes, the same ones you cried when you thought you had to stay.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
ships roll in the night
pass each other like
strangers on the street,
we wave
last night felt like
all the times I had forgotten
or fallen short
were released into the starry night sky
or maybe into the waves like wavering wishes,
we laughed
is it trite to say
we did it because we were young?
the night was alive with the rest of our lives
and I know that this morning
you are all in cars,
old homes,
and listening to your parents tell you they can't trust you anymore-
but I hope you don't forget
the friendships forged
over moving bodies
and songs we sung along to loudly
and I hope you remember what it feels like
to be young and capable of big mistakes and mysteries
I hope you remember the stars,
we looked
I promise to not
forget,
these moments are fleeting
and happen so sporadically
that I must ingrain the way his eyes shone
into my memory;
I'll keep the laughter like a memory box
in my heart,
we loved
real, young love that tastes
like melted ice cream
and a salty ocean kiss on old freshmen scars,
it was a love that held each other's hands
and giggled in harmony,
we sailed
into the horizon
with freedom on the tip of our tongues
and our back to
the towns we came from,
the boys, the girls
that broke our hearts,
the time that we thought about dying-
no we were flying in the breeze, I promise you,
we danced.
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
I'd have sung to
the strum of your guitar
I'd have danced around
while you smiled crooked
and laughed like thunderclaps
I'd have held your hand
and rubbed my thumb against
freckled skin,
finding affirmations tucked in
the crevices and cracks of hard-working hands
I'd have kissed you
in the sunshine,
on the back porch,
while the sun set,
while mosquitoes flew around our heads,
in your bedroom,
listening to your favorite soundtracks,
backstage,
underneath table cloths,
next to your best friend
I'd have touched you
like lightning bolts,
caught all your storms
in jars,
worn your soft skin inside and out
and told you all my kindled secrets
if you'd have let me
I'd have loved you like a summertime
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
One of these days, he's going to write you a song.
One of these days, he'll be sitting in a pub with the lights husky and his brain muffled, and he'll run his fingers over the battered piano's keys. They'll be slightly sticky - his won't be the only drunk hands that have caressed them.
He'll tentatively start to work at them, a melody will form as if by accident. It'll be nothing spectacular. It won't be awe inspiring. It won't be destructive. It'll be quiet. It'll be gentle. It will haunt you for nights on end. It will remind you of something you've heard before. It will be just like his love for you.
He'll forget about it by the end of the evening. He'll drink himself into oblivion because if he sees you in his mind one more time - your head thrown back, blonde hair around your shoulders, eyes so light and alive, he'll go mad. He wonders if he's mad already. He certainly feels it most days.
In the morning, he'll find himself at the piano again. This will be a different piano. This piano will be a work of art in itself, he'll wonder if he deserves to use it. He does, he does, he does.
He'll flex his fingers, his eyes will go to your bracelet around his wrist. And he'll play. His fingers remember what his mind doesn't.
It might be a long piece, he won't ever be sure if it's finished. He'll call it "In Memoriam" publicly. To himself, he'll title it "An Apology in Motion"
He'll wonder if you'd have liked it, if you had ever heard it.
You would have. You loved everything that he created. You would have told him this, one day.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
how much do you love her?
do you love her
like the Arizona mountains
that whisper to the sunsets that they are
magnificent paintings
rather than just a blushing sky
do you love her
like the Aztec ruins
with graceful ghosts of
****** sacrifices
that roam the rock and fallen shrines-
I bet there was a love like yours here too
I bet lustful eyes shared gazes here
once, too
do you love her
like a deep cave
with water falling for the
oil pastel walls
and with the echo songs of my past confessions,
my desperate pleas for your affections
do you love her,
please look me in the eyes
and tell me
she never compared
to the possibilities that my body holds
tell me boy
that you could give her up
and run to me
in summer
with fireworks bursting around us
and our limbs entangled..
please
be with me
give her up
be with me
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
you hand me my body back.
it is naked
and you have written “i wish
i could”
on my chest in red lipstick
emotionless, and limp
you leave me on the steps.
i always seem to ruin things
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:50 PM UTC