why is it that i begin to
resent anyone who starts
to care about me.
what is so poisonous
about a hug or a good
morning message,
what is it that i'm allergic
to all of my friends can't
wait to get their hands on.
keep it away, i know how
it all ends, i know every
future argument that
sits dormant in your fist,
i won't be the one to wake it.
you can save your affection
for someone else, because i
don't need it.
the truth is, i'm terrified of it.
terrified of anything vulnerability
brings, so if you'd like to stay in my
life, pick up a rock and help
me keep building this wall,
convince me to keep people out
so i can keep happiness in.
i don't need to hold his or her hand
as much as i need to hold my own.
i've only got me.
i've never felt more alone.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
somedays i wonder how you're doing without me
wonder if you're still sleeping with your weird orange
pumpkin and pretending it's me pressed up against
your chest,
wonder if you ever look at your phone around midnight
and remember the last time that we talked.
you told me a corny joke, because you always knew i loved them.
you brought the sunshine around at 6am when
my air conditioner was loud enough to muffle our voices
and if someone had pressed their ear against the door
they would've heard us saying
"olive you, olive you more, olive you more than more, olive you most.
olive you mostest toastest."
and that was it.
the last night that we ever talked as lovers,
because the next day you laid your hands against her cheek,
and your fingerprints memorized the outline of her body
and forgot the coldness of mine.
some nights i can still hear the echos
of your ringtone,
i can still feel the ghosts of your kisses send
shivers down my spine.
but i'll be okay, cutiepie.
i'll be just fine.
i'm learning that happiness comes without you,
i'll be alright.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 9:51 PM UTC
Hand on my bare thigh
Dig your nails in my cold skin
Turn me into clay
I want to be your masterpiece
A work of art discovered
Under the sheets.
Michelangelo sculpted with his hands
But sculpt me with your lips
Leave kisses on my neck in the outline
Of Donatello's St. George
And don't leave a piece of me untouched
Our private exhibit
Darling, mold me.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 4:22 PM UTC
my phone rang today and the caller id was restricted,
before i even answered, i knew that it was you.
"hi, how are you?"
a voice filled with a dose of memories,
a voice that sounded like nights spent
laying awake, thinking about how to hide
the marks you left on my body,
the battlescars of a little girl being drafted
into something she was not ready for,
maturing overnight for the man who
she thought she was ready for,
being afraid of how he made her
feel as if she didn't deserve anymore.
"i miss you"
brought me back to the night
that i came home from spending two weeks
in texas, tanned legs, brimming with stories,
but you only wanted me to apologize for
leaving you alone for so long.
i want to go home, take me home,
no, no, no. please stay with me.
"you know that i'm sorry."
grabbing my wrist,
your love was the color of petunias.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
The pain is ridiculous, pointless.
Because one day it will all be over.
My skin will return to dust
And never remember your touch.
How I wish I was alive to
Know what that feels like.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:06 PM UTC
Pretty
is a letter away from petty.
Pretty
comes between “just a” and “face.”
It comes between “don’t worry your” and
“little head about it.”
Pretty is stones, snowflakes,
leaves and streams.
Pretty is looked on
from a distance.
Pretty does not have a life all its own.
Pretty exists to be
mildly
admired.
Pretty does not need.
Pretty is not needed.
Pretty
is not
beautiful.
Pretty is not moving
or significant;
interesting
or intelligent.
Pretty
does
not
matter.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
teach me how to feel again,
your touch numbed me.
still buzzing, yearning
for something, anything.
but how can something
come when all i do is push
away, too scared of pain.
disgusted by affection,
and dismantled by any
sign of aggression,
please,
don't come any closer.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:39 AM UTC
we sat in the car in front of the fabric store
talking about the pink elephant that had found
a permanent residence inside of our home:
my future.
i wish that eyes came with personal windshield wipers
because you cried over the fact that i didn't believe in god
that i didn't want to go to a christian college
that i didn't want to worship
and i wish my kneecaps came with airbags,
so i would find it easier to pray,
but i'm sorry mom, that is not who i am.
your baby girl has been cutting the strings from
being sewed in for so long, and using them to patch
up your own heart because it hurts me to know that you know
i am not saturday morning church pews,
i am not someone who judges the length of someone's
skirt because deep inside i really wish i had the legs
to pull it off. i am not empty hallelujah's, amen's, preach it,
i am not a believer in depending on god to choose where the dice fall,
because i refuse to believe that life is rigged,
i'll take the punches as they come and put on my boxing gloves,
i don't care if i fall out of the ring, because i know now i'm strong enough to get back in,
and for me that hasn't been something realized through bowing my head
it's been something realized through holding my head high
and trying my best to do right,
and it's sad that you don't believe there can't be good without god.
what hurt the most
wasn't that you refuse to pay for another college
wasn't that you have so much faith invested in the guy upstairs
that you forgot to put some towards your daughter
who's only looking for pride from her mother,
it was when you said,
"next thing i know, you're gonna be bringing a girl home."
this closet, is getting smaller everyday,
and being trapped in here with all of these skeletons
is starting to hurt.
boys are cool,
but *****
are ******* awesome.
and if i ever do fall in love with a girl,
i'll write our names into all the bibles i can find.
because there's a verse in there somewhere
that says that our bodies are a temple,
so with her i'll have no problem with going to church everyday.
if i had a genie, i would never stop rubbing my lamp,
wishing that i would be able
to care for things without the expense
of losing the ones that care for me.
I've been listening to sermons since i was a day old,
and what I've learned is that God is love,
so if there is someone looking out for me up there,
he should know better than anyone else
that loving someone with the same
secret body parts as mine
is anything but bad, is anything but a sin,
is anything but wrong,
it is me holding a girl's hand
it is me being just as human as anyone else.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
i guess I just don't understand
how she can hold your hand
and never have to wear long
sleeves or turtlenecks.
maybe to her you aren't a thunderstorm.
maybe it just hurts to know that i never deserved
the calm before the storm.
i'm jealous of her shorts and t-shirts,
i can never look at her without searching
for bruises and crossed fingers.
was it just that I never deserved
to feel your breath against
my neck without your hand
digging into my wrist,
leaving marks of your lack
of tenderness in the same shade
as violets;
i always tried to find beauty in you.
i'm sorry that i could never be enough
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
i'm sorry if i hurt you,
but you should know it
was only to make sure that
my own heart was beating.
i held interventions with
all of the ghosts of your
pasts, and the skeletons
living in your closet even
decided to move out, but i never
asked for anything return.
no kisses, no belonging to each other,
i don't mean to be cold, i swear.
but affection is salt,
and i am still an open wound,
all i can do is apologize
and pray you'll stay despite
the fact that i don't want to ****
my first taught me that pain
will come again after healing,
and my second taught me that
maybe i'm better off alone, so i've
decided to live my life permanently
bleeding, so i won't have to cut myself
open for whoever comes along,
i'm putting myself on display,
but please do not touch.
do not touch.
do not ******* touch.
all i ask is that you have respect
for the fact that my body still trembles
over the dreams of a boy with closed
fists, and i still wake up from nightmares
of his smile after telling me he loved me.
i am still in the process of healing,
i am still in the process of accepting
that those months were not my fault,
that the bruises weren't caused by me.
i should've known by his name,
that he would leave behind more things than one.
i mean, Mark?
is that not ironic?
so, once again,
i'm sorry that i will
never be what you want
me to be, that i will never
hold your hand in public
or whisper into your ear
and kiss the nape of your neck.
i don't think you'd
want that from the
living dead, a fully functioning
cold-as-stone zombie.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC