Hundreds of miles away, my heart beats without a regard.
It averts eye contact,
dismissing any suggestions of interest—
knowing well that familiarity is almost as obnoxious as the word “discourse”.
It works aimlessly, wandering for a place to call home—knowing that home is a hostel full of ideas brighter than my favorite constellation.
Even when directionless, it still finds itself waiting at a door half closed—knowing the only safe space it can stand is the comfort of despondency.
It’s a man of few words,
But of infinite thoughts.
It still makes me hope from miles away.
I know that it’ll be okay,
Because uncertainty is my favorite color.
But most of all,
I can still feel my heart here.
It follows me up empty elevators,
And in between street lights that lead back to the only home I’ve ever known.
And I just want to say hi.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 4:03 AM UTC
It sits, waiting for me in the same place that I left it.
It’s the same, dark space that follows the death of my care.
The shame of a thousand tears sits abounding on a throne of embarrassment that I have crowned for so long.
It’s flooded with the ghosts of those I reigned in affection, and drowned in empathy.
When their light burned out,
All I saw was empty space.
It crept slow, like a sunset I wish wouldn’t have faded.
It still sits under my tongue, waiting to selfishly abound itself in the only thing that makes me glow.
Light radiates all around me,
But I continue to trace shadows in the dark.
It reminds me of words wasted on hearts of malice—vengeful and cruel.
I’m falling into dust that feels anything but cosmic, and reigning a kingdom of lies dressed in anything but its best.
And for the first time in my life,
I am my own silver lining.
Mar 28, 2019
Mar 28, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
behind gazes of admiration,
voices remind you of what’s absent.
it buzzes like a song you knew years ago that you can’t piece the lyrics to.
it’ll hurt just enough to make you
think of her.
you dull a wound anything but healed with a smirk and touch in my direction.
it’s almost enough.
you’ll graze your hand against mine.
it’ll sting just enough to make me believe.
you’ll revisit the ghost in your heart
for the second time tonight,
and i’ll tend to the one in the mirror.
she’s tired of hearing your swan song
about a ghost anything but dead.
it’s singing:
“i wish you were special”
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
Unravel me with words unspoken
Because I know the only way
You’ll take me is naked.
Overlook a thousand
Different ways I’d change your mind.
And I’ll keep drafting all of the endings
That might be.
And you’ll keep using me.
Because you know I am the only
Thing I have left to give.
Empty of words to plead,
My body can scream:
“I’ll still love you.
Not even a little less.”
Oct 3, 2018
Oct 3, 2018 at 11:57 PM UTC
Behind tears of
Indifference
My pride is aching.
My heart is sinking.
My soul stopped singing.
Lost between
Reasons to stay
And reasons to plead,
I find myself buried beneath
Excuses
And apologies
Weighing more than my worth.
While words I can’t speak
Swallow me whole,
The only thing that I can do
Is wait.
My head recollects pain
Old and new,
But it all traces back to you.
I wonder which is hurting more.
My tongue
Or my heart?
And that’s something
To everyone
But you.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 3:01 AM UTC
It begins with a spark.
It feels like the incineration
Of every empty
Touch,
Kiss,
And
Sigh
Evaporating
The space you took up
In my chest.
It’s fanning
Flames of disinterest
In hopes that they
Burn everything
You’ve
Ever
Touched.
But it isn’t the destruction of
Love or
Affection
Because that would insinuate
That you were
Important enough to
Feel it for in the
First place.
It’s fire consuming
The idea of
Time wasted
On a person
That couldn’t tell
North from South
Or
A ghost
From a beating heart.
It’s shredding
Every ounce of attention
Spent
On a
Patron of cowardice
Too pathetic to
Write these words for.
It feels like setting every
Word I’ve ever
written
on
Fire
In hopes of
Un-etching them
from my tongue.
It’s scorn pouring out
Of a soul
Scarred
From burning every
Bridge
Its ever walked upon.
But I will continue
To burn these
Memories,
Because
I’ll always be consumed at
The thought of someone
Not being drawn to
The spark in my eyes.
Oct 6, 2017
Oct 6, 2017 at 2:20 AM UTC
Every now and then,
It drips
Like water
From my ceiling,
Until all I see is
The rain.
It follows me
Through the breeze
And sounds like the word
“Please”
Drowning me in shame.
I can still hear it trembling,
Like a lie
Behind clenched teeth.
A lie that no one can hear but me.
It waits until my skin
Finally feels clean,
And reverts me
Back to a time
That still tastes like seventeen.
I don’t want to remember
You in a place
You didn’t belong.
I don’t want to remember
Because no one would believe me.
But I still feel it here.
It drips like water from my ceiling.
It follows me through the breeze.
I can hear it trembling, like a lie behind clenched teeth.
A lie that only I can hear.
And it makes my skin feel *****
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 2:22 AM UTC
I've never been good at
Being touched.
Though the fingers
Of endless suitors
Have traced incomparable
Lines of affection,
They all stroke
The same wounds.
New hands feel like
Recycled lullabies,
Humming promises
Of a new melody,
Singing a remedy for
My impassivity.
Whether words fall
Passionate or
Fearful,
Endearment lines my lips
With an expiration
Long enough to convince me,
But short enough to leave me.
Reminding me:
The disintegration of
Indifference
Remains
My prerequisite
For destruction.
So before you
Touch me with
Promises of a new
Orchestration,
I'm already marking the
Days until you leave.
Because my skin
Is tired of
Intruders hidden
Behind momentary
Infatuation.
So keep your hands to yourself.
Jul 11, 2017
Jul 11, 2017 at 12:24 AM UTC
Voices shaping repetitive poetry
Prosper in the depths of my spirit.
Those who have came and gone
Exist within words and phrases
That have blossomed
In rejection,
And planted me in
Insecurity.
Maybe if I listen long enough,
The apologies of those that
Shower me
With disinterest
Will counter the shadow of
Apathy over my head.
Maybe then,
Will my heart get to see the sun.
Let it melt the words
That fall from excuses
And burn every empty adjective
Lingering around places
I wasn't welcome.
Because apologies have only
Cleared everyone else's conscience,
While silencing mine.
Jun 9, 2017
Jun 9, 2017 at 10:23 PM UTC
Somewhere between
Disorder and Longing,
Lives a man that collects flowers.
From near and far,
He ventures toward
A reclusive beauty that
Floods fields
Of happiness,
And paints yellow skies.
Seasons change,
Petals fall,
But his passion fuels
A fire dimming
Within his chest.
The nostalgia
In his eyes
Parallel a love
That is fleeting.
An emptiness,
That can only be
Filled with flowers
He once found
Within her heart.
It makes me wonder,
How I could envy
The soul destructive enough
To fill this vessel
Of sadness.
As seasons pass,
He saves them
For a spirit that
Ceases to return.
But I remain absent,
Because he is saving
Flowers for the dead
And I am only living.
Because he will
Always wait for
A muse
Unworthy of flowers.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:21 AM UTC