She was laving her insides with gin the night I met her.
She told me she had bullets embedded in her skin which sounded insane, but I still swore I could see them.
That night she only effused about ***
and gin
and her eyes were blue
and I wanted to drown,
to dwell in the sea beneath her eyelids.
She was untruthful.
She said she would be candid with my foreign face,
but all of my words drew tears from the sea I loved to laud.
We were very tired.
I swear she must have cleaned her wounds with ***** a thousand times that night before I could tend to them myself.
I know she was very tired.
Her eyes still blue, still stormy, made my throat close up.
I wanted to be more copious with my words.
To tell her that I wanted to be her gin
her ****
her everything in between,
but I couldn’t,
for she was the beauty I couldn’t grasp with my words but with my heart,
a heart that wouldn’t rightly align with hers.
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 3:10 AM UTC
I keep falling in love
with
your
eyes baby
and I can’t stand to see them full of tears. Baby your eyes,
fill my shot glass with your tears,
Ill get drunk.
Not tipsy drunk.
Drunk.
The type of drunk that makes white people want to bring back the black people they’ve killed.
Black out drunk.
The type of drunk that makes my mom accept that I’m in love with you.
Baby, baby girl,
the drunk that makes me write about you.
The poet kinda drunk.
The gay kinda drunk.
The in love kinda drunk.
Baby.
Baby girl.
Your eyes,
they’re full of tears
but I'm a little too drunk to know why.
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 3:54 AM UTC
When its time to say goodbye
hold your breath and count
from
1 to 10
because I don’t believe in goodbyes
but when I see that time cant cooperate
I know I have to face my fears
and kiss the surface of your body
until my lips become a part of your skin.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
The last time we spoke she said that caterpillars crawl all over her skin.
I found that to be strange.
She was 9 years old.
Brown curly hair, green eyes, short attention span.
When she called for me I would sing because her voice was a melody.
When she cried her tears wrote symphonies.
When she died I could see her name in the clouds.
The last time we spoke, a few days after,
butterflies crawled all over my skin
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
There is no such thing
as a bad writer,
just one who isn't sad
- not sad enough.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC
I always joke around about how I am illegal.
People laugh, give me nervous looks, then ask for clarification.
“Wait are you serious?” they would ask as if not being american is lethal.
I always joke around about how I am illegal
I’m not, but once I say that people look at me lesser than equal.
They forget that more than one race is allowed in this nation.
I always joke around about how I am illegal.
People laugh, give me nervous looks, then ask for clarification.
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
how beautiful
it is to be alone,
on my own,
for i am
complete, wonderful
and without a need
to be loved
by anyone else
because this Light
remains real
especially without you
and your attention;
this is not bitterness,
old friend, it is grattitude
for leaving
and letting go
has been more than
I would have ever planned,
so, let the winds blow you
away, away, away
and the rains
drop, drop, drop
that will lead you
far from me
from us
from those you left
left behind
Nov 5, 2015
Nov 5, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy
I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid
I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would've died
One word then, One smile is enough
And I'm happy;
Happy that it's not true
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:40 PM UTC
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC