My heart began to tick away time
Like fingernails to a table
Running out the clock on our relationship
Running out the excuses in my brain
I became so good at weaving lies,
I kept myself warm even when your arms were far.
When a person freezes to death,
They take off their clothes
in a phenomenon known as paradoxical **********
Taking off my
lies
excuses
folly that you're good for me
was the hardest part of
learning where we were.
In letting go.
In death.
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 3:40 PM UTC
With You all I felt was
Fire
A burning passion tinted with
Ecstasy and
Desire
A closeness bound by
Scars and shared
Secrets
But
With You all I felt was
Protected
Police tape signed with
Chivalry and
Endearment
A closeness bound by
Texts and tender
Friendships
And now
All I feel is torn
between
aching desire
and passionless safety
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
You thought that
You would never make a name for yourself
so you deprived yourself of one
and took your own life
You forgot that
You had already made a name for yourself
but now its deprived of You
So
I branded You upon my skin
With your date of birth and death
Your name has never died
So neither have You
You are the most precious name brand
Anyone could ever witness
And that no one could ever buy
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
I.
I can feel the crush of her blueberry eyes
in the grip of your skin.
She stains
the sheets between our twister games,
that scuffle in your bed at night.
and I just can’t wash out
the echoes that she's left in your eyes
where I have turned
invisible.
This is my goodbye.
II.
You once said, in the heat of your embrace,
that you wanted to hold me close
because I spoke like things
had more meaning than they really did.
But I am not written in braille,
you do not have to touch me to
know me.
III.
I cannot recall the day when I transformed from
your golden chrysanthemum to
the torn-up library book
that you gave and took back
as you pleased.
IV.
I hate the way you kiss
because your lips leave sticky-note
reminders
of the last people you left behind. I fear
my fate will be the same.
V.
The movement of your hips
rippling like waves between my sands
is
overwhelming. Just
stop.
VI.
I will never trust you.
VII.
I feel like a flower.
Standing silent against the heavy rain.
Releasing all my wearied petals in
the coming storm.
This is goodbye.
November 25, 2013 1:09 PM
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 9:15 AM UTC
Inherently,
there are those memories that ****** away at our crinkled hearts.
Some pull & tug in the same way,
eyelids close
slowly and sleepily on Sunday mornings.
A few and a half dust-motes on memories are like paper cuts.
Short, sweet, stinging.
A handful are incredibly blurry, is it for the best?
Whether, my fingertips are trying to paint a lie white,
even, my mind is not too sure.
I keep living and breathing past tense.
I liked the way your lips turned downwards before that smile,
the roughness of your fingertips against mine.
Of course, it is all gone now.
You are gone now.
And I have not even forgiven myself
for
forgetting how it f e l t.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 9:12 AM UTC
You were the few leaves of Ivy
That over grew onto the building
And I the willing building
You were the small speck of rust that
over took my smallish metal frame
Crippling me from allowing anyone else inside
And I the willing frame
You were the mold
that spread against my walls
infecting me
Causing me to be ‘Closed For Good’
but I allowed the spread
never doing anything to halt
the damaging process
I never had anything to offer you
But you still took everything I had
And after I was completely encased in You
You moved on
To see what other damage You could cause
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
My life has been painted onto canvas
I am not a painting strewn through
Museum walls
Not yet
Black for the loss
Red for spilt blood
And blue and purple for bruises
Yellow struck up from
The bottom
Childhood memories
Sea foam green
For the waves carrying me onward
Watercolors
Built on messy strokes inside garage walls
And too much caffeine late at night
My purpose has not yet been decided
If I am to be
A landscape or a face
Or maybe an animal
But I am
Beautiful
I don’t hang inside
Museum walls
Not yet
But I am still,
Beautiful
As the painter and
The painting
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
I asked a six year old
What she thought love was
And her response was
Simple
She told me that
“Love is coloring outside the lines,
Because no matter what,
They will always love
Your drawing”
And her answer was simple but
It kept me awake at night
Because I never showed you the deep
Purples that bruised my thoughts
And the black scribbles that were
Supposed to be organized
But instead went everywhere
And the painful reds
followed by pale pinks
Because I began to believe
That a six year old knew more
About love than
Me
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC