I visited your grave the other day, and it occurred to me that I couldn't tell you how I was doing.
I assumed you're doing fine, or at least I'd like to think so.
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've stopped believing in Heaven,
I couldn't bare to tell you that I've become the soil surrounding your casket.
I sat there in silence while my fingers went numb and I swear for a second
I could feel my soul sinking into the ground trying to shake you awake,
To tell you I need you. To tell you I haven't made progress. I'm killing everyone around me.
I wanted you to wake up for just ten minutes. I wanted to tell you everything I haven't been able to write nor say out loud.
I wanted to tell you that I'm okay and I wanted you to tuck my hair behind my ear
and melt these frozen tears off my cheeks and look me straight in the eyes to tell me that I'm not.
I wanted to sit there in your arms and scream,
Because every time I try screaming, I fear that I'll awaken parts of me that are meant to stay unconscious.
But I've been meaning to think about myself for a second and-
I'VE BEEN SPENDING RESTLESS NIGHTS CLENCHING MY FISTS AROUND MY BEDSHEETS,
AND DIGGING MY FINGERNAILS INTO MY HANDS BECAUSE I'VE FOUND AN ADDICTION THAT I CANNOT TAME,
THE SIGHT OF BLOOD DOESN'T BOTHER ME THE WAY IT USED TO.
I'VE STARTED DOING THINGS TO FORGET.
I'VE STARTED LIGHTING PLANTS ON FIRE TO GET SOME SORT OF HIGH OUT OF LIVING.
I'VE STARTED BECOMING THE TYPE OF PERSON YOU TOLD ME NEVER TO BE.
MY PALMS ARE THE EYES OF HURRICANES AND DESTROY EVERYTHING THEY TOUCH,
WHY IS EVERYONE ACTING LIKE THEY NEVER SAW THE TREMBLING IN THE FIRST PLACE?
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT SANITY IS AND I DON'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME
MY HEAD WAS SILENT.
IT'S LONELY YOU KNOW, HAVING FIVE DIFFERENT PEOPLE TALK TO YOU AT ONCE IN BETWEEN YOUR EARS.
I MET SOMEONE THAT LIVES A BORDERLINE AWAY BUT STILL MANAGES TO SIT
ON MY PORCH AND WAIT FOR ME TO LET HIM IN.
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING DINNER TABLES WITHOUT PUSHING MY CHAIR IN FIRST,
I CAN'T STOP LEAVING PEOPLE WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.
I FEEL TOO FULL. I FEEL TO FULL OF FLAMES BURNING DOWN EVERY LAST CITY IN MY BODY,
I FEEL EMPTY. I FEEL LIKE IT'S SUNDAY MORNING AND I'VE POURED MY FATHER A BOWL OF CEREAL JUST TO FIND OUT WE'RE OUT OF MILK.
PLEASE DON'T HURT ME, I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T MEAN TO, PLEASE DON'T HUR-
I have a body made of one-hundred sheets of college ruled notebook paper that kids like me used to make scrapbooks out of.
I am a collection of bruises holding up photos of a Father's fist,
My hands were only made to hold those who feel empty when not holding a glass of wine.
Some days I am full of constant negativity and feel the need to rip grass out from the earth
and throw China cabinets to the floor to say that nothing stays pure forever.
I stopped thinking about myself for a second.
I sat at your grave and said nothing.
I was going to tell you all of this but I couldn't bare to tell you I stopped believing in Heaven.
The only time I ever saw you smile was on Sunday mornings.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
kissing you was like swerving into oncoming traffic
i can never tell if i am more haunted by empty picture frames or the ashes of their contents
you taught me that the saying "pick your battles" meant not answering when love was at the door
sometimes when i drink whiskey i swear i can hear your voice in the creases of my bedsheets & i sleep on the floor
i still catch myself running my hands over things you touched the most, looking for the echoes of your fingertips
i practice things i'll never say to you
i remember the day you told me you didn't like poetry, how "everything's already been said" & how "nothing meaningful can be captured without being cliche" you know, i don't miss you like the sun and moon, i do not miss you like tide bent waves crashing on the shoreline, i miss you like a chernobyl swingset misses children
rumor has it that drowning is a lot like coming home, that drinking bleach can **** the butterflies in your stomach
for your love of cigarettes, i would have been an ashtray
this halloween i want to dress up as the you when you loved yourself and show up on your doorstep
i never understood what you meant when you said i was an instrument, back when you would cup your hands around my chest and breathe through the holes in my heart, i still wonder if the sounds i made remind you of wind chimes
i never paid much attention to abandoned buildings until i became one
in my dreams all the flowers smell like your perfume
i am the only person who has ever wished for the same snowflake to fall twice
if i could go back, and rewrite the definition of audacity, it would be how when we lost the bet of love, you said "we never shook on it"
i love you, if the feeling is not mutual, please pretend this was a poem
the only apology i want from you, is to have you repeat the names of children we will never have in your parents living room until they *****
we are the same person if you find yourself up at 4am dry heaving promises, or if you are kept awake by the laughter of those who've abandoned you
nobody ever told you that goodbyes taste like the back of stamps
sometimes i'm convinced that the only reason we hug, is so you can check my back for exit wounds
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
while september cicadas
were singing my neighbors to sleep
i was up walking holes in my shoes
over love once lost
so many poems ago
that the only thing i remember
about the house at 38th & bluestone
is that it reeked of alcohol and is
as i'm sure of it
still saturated in perfume
and abandoned laughter
but that's not the point
give me a minute
what i'm trying to say
is i always thought god
enjoyed watching things leave me
it makes me wonder
what was on his mind
that night in september
when i stooped to cough
or tie my shoelaces
i no longer remember why
but i recall their trajectory
the way gravity cradled my hands
and brought them crashing back to earth like a 747
they landed inches away
from a scrap of crumpled loose leaf
folded in half like the smiles
of my relatives on a holiday truce
you see, lately i've been looking for scars in the newspaper
i find myself checking the obituary
for my former selves since the day i found your suicide letter
maybe that's why i can never explain my obsession with history
maybe archeology is just a funeral
in reverse
maybe hell is just rewinding home movies
or watching confetti
turn back into photographs
i never told anyone
the reason the doors to the gun cabinet in my family's house are locked not because they are afraid
i will take my life
but because sometimes
i sing them birthday songs
on the day you died
it makes me think
of how rooms only echo
when they are empty
*you know
i never echoed until you died*
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
i always thought
you were thru traffic
that you were just jet lag
background noise
the kiss in the rain
i've never had
but what if you aren't?
what if this
was the thousandth time
i have loved you?
what if this is just a fresh coat of paint?
what if god
keeps a handkerchief
soaked in the day we met
next to his bed?
maybe theres a reason
i reach for no one in bed
the way i would
if someone used to be there
you know, they say
the road behind us
is littered with things
we couldn't hold onto
i wonder how many times
you've slipped through my hands
like hour glass sand
do you know
how much erosion you've caused?
i heard cupid
stopped keeping count
of how many times
we came together
just to come apart again
maybe it was just a rumor
it makes me think
about how many times
i've almost had you
like if all this talk
about history repeating itself
endlessly replaying is true
i wonder how many times
things have happened already
like the time
i tried talking you
into loving me back
back fired
or the time i could have sworn
jesus & lazarus were playing chess
with my heartbeat
but it was only you smiling
how many times
have i tried to tell you
how many times
have you read this poem
how many times
have i tried not to meet you
in my dreams anymore
it's like sleep tries to warn
me of what's happening
before it does but
i keep having this dream
where i tell you bedtime stories
and each one
is a different way you die
and in every one
i can never save you
it's like you're this song
i have on repeat
and every time it starts over
i forget the words
it's like you picked up the book entitled "us"
and the back cover
said you'd leave
so you never bothered reading it
tell me you aren't
going back in that bookstore
just to do it again
or will you tell me tomorrow?
or is this the time
you don't say anything at all?
if this has all happened before
if we call it quits
before we begin
again
from the beginning
i just want to ask you
to be my fire
because i am tired
of these old lives
and i'd like to see them
burn
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
and here i am again
at the intersection
of pedestrian language
& old wives tales
swallowing gum
like 7 year memories
opening umbrellas inside
cause i can't seem get away
from all of this rain
i ********** with my left hand
cause i was told
back in highschool that
"it feels like someone else is doing it"
it gets me wondering
about the difference between
losing you and finding out
that some one else found you
or my sleep
or lack thereof
its starting to tear me apart
i keep having this dream
where you are in
an unfamiliar body of water
trying to wash my poetry
off of your hands
or the one where
something happens in my chest
every time you sit
on someone else's bed
i'm tired of feeling like something you've misplaced
but don't have the heart
to look for anymore
tired of you saying my name
like you're trying to bury it
i'm tired of wondering
if you can tell the difference
between the absence
of my voice & silence
the other day
i almost started sobbing
at work when a woman
asked me about
our equipment
i was explaining how
things come apart
and almost mentioned your name
it made me think
of how you used to say
things like "what would you do
if i showed up on your doorstep
one day?" now, i haunt
the windows in my house
i don't leave for weeks at a time
i sit on the porch like the dog
you didn't shoot behind the shed
the one that refuses to die
until you come home again
i told somebody once, that
you didn't even know
what my voicemail sounded like
i wonder if they thought
it was because you
are so important that i never
let it ring that many times
before picking up
or if you dont know
what it sounds like
because you've never called
you can't be the ****** weapon
and the search party
i'm tired of all the seats
to the ferris wheel in my chest
being empty
tired of your voice
being the one i look for
in abandoned places
that one sound i beg
to bounce back
down vacant hallways
i just seem to stand there
in all of that quiet
like someone looking for a mistake
on an eviction notice
so i guess the hardest part
isn't letting go
it's forgetting
you ever had a grip
in the first place
and since you've been gone
i wonder if when
you pushed yourself away from me
you used your left hand
so it felt like someone else did it
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 8:44 PM UTC