sammmbee - Hello Poetry

I was a little girl yesterday morning, With a flash of red hair and a gap-toothed grin Laughing and playing on the swing at my favorite park. I was a confused pre-teen that afternoon, Scraping her knees on jagged insults Holding in tears for secret bathroom visits Where she would push her fingers Into her throat and Pray on her knees that her lunch would Reappear like a magic trick. I was a scared teenager by evening, Kissing girls and running away from The demons in my head with voices That sounded like my mother’s. By midnight I was on the floor shaking, Back to twenty, back to who I am now Wishing those past me’s would understand that I needed Something more. Yet this morning I sat up in my bed and greeted the sun with a Flash of red hair and a close-gapped grin And I am here now, Here remembering, being present and Knowing who I was Ten years ago twelve years ago fifteen years ago five minutes ago Is exactly who I needed to be, Doing exactly what I needed to do. Scraping my knees and elbows And pushing my finger down my throat And feeling ugly all the time, That’s not what I needed but it’s Who I was Who I couldn’t stop being because I Didn’t know how. In my mind, I am not That little girl, that preteen, that teenager I am me. I am Bumping and bruising and Breaking, sometimes, along the way but this Is where I stand. And those past selves stand Hand-in-hand somewhere along The equator of my brain Like paper dolls unfolded Through my history.

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Dec 8, 2014

Dec 8, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC

Paper Past Selves

I was a little girl yesterday morning, With a flash of red hair and a gap-toothed grin Laughing and playing on the swing at my favorite park. I was a confused pre-teen that afternoon, Scraping her knees on jagged insults Holding in tears for secret bathroom visits Where she would push her fingers Into her throat and Pray on her knees that her lunch would Reappear like a magic trick. I was a scared teenager by evening, Kissing girls and running away from The demons in my head with voices That sounded like my mother’s. By midnight I was on the floor shaking, Back to twenty, back to who I am now Wishing those past me’s would understand that I needed Something more. Yet this morning I sat up in my bed and greeted the sun with a Flash of red hair and a close-gapped grin And I am here now, Here remembering, being present and Knowing who I was Ten years ago twelve years ago fifteen years ago five minutes ago Is exactly who I needed to be, Doing exactly what I needed to do. Scraping my knees and elbows And pushing my finger down my throat And feeling ugly all the time, That’s not what I needed but it’s Who I was Who I couldn’t stop being because I Didn’t know how. In my mind, I am not That little girl, that preteen, that teenager I am me. I am Bumping and bruising and Breaking, sometimes, along the way but this Is where I stand. And those past selves stand Hand-in-hand somewhere along The equator of my brain Like paper dolls unfolded Through my history.

43

My body is a roadmap Dotted with state lines and stretch marks and red arrows pointing to You Are Here. There are scars like flags crossing my arms claiming gripping holding fast to this Earth this life Highways that lead nowhere Train tracks that click clack against my ribcage Cars that rumble in my brain. Exhaust fumes fogging thoughts. My body wears these hills on my chest like rugged territory unstaked unstated these weight plateaus like failure flatlining against the horizon. My body is untraveled unfolded uncreased These eyes like lakes see depth from new perspective dipping fresh into cool clear vision. These legs like rivers cut through worlds rushing hard and fast This head like boulder steady and stoic even with anxiety quaking through my core. My body is a roadmap. I seek only adventures within.

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Dec 1, 2014

Dec 1, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC

You Are Here

My body is a roadmap Dotted with state lines and stretch marks and red arrows pointing to You Are Here. There are scars like flags crossing my arms claiming gripping holding fast to this Earth this life Highways that lead nowhere Train tracks that click clack against my ribcage Cars that rumble in my brain. Exhaust fumes fogging thoughts. My body wears these hills on my chest like rugged territory unstaked unstated these weight plateaus like failure flatlining against the horizon. My body is untraveled unfolded uncreased These eyes like lakes see depth from new perspective dipping fresh into cool clear vision. These legs like rivers cut through worlds rushing hard and fast This head like boulder steady and stoic even with anxiety quaking through my core. My body is a roadmap. I seek only adventures within.

17

Cover this body with layers upon layers, Each one hiding the secrets I don't want To tell. They yell my *** Scream it out Shout it and others follow suit. Four letter words may make violence but S-H-E causes earthquakes inside me. My curves curse me to wear my ** Chromosomes like neon paint Warning sign: This person was born Female. Born into an imaginary category, Forced to conform. My mind Is at war with the mirror eyes staring back Those little details sticking out Highlight them, cutandpaste to another Body. Maybe this bandage will keep me safe from The gender police maybe people will be Confused and not ask Maybe they will ask For once and not assume. Maybe I'll lose enough oxygen that it won't Matter. Matter is all I am, atoms twisted together in Disarray and how can you call that Anything but what it is. I defy this binary, refuse to walk the PinkorBlue tightrope. Let me fall and land in purple. Let me live in the inbetween.

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Nov 12, 2014

Nov 12, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC

Boi

Cover this body with layers upon layers, Each one hiding the secrets I don't want To tell. They yell my *** Scream it out Shout it and others follow suit. Four letter words may make violence but S-H-E causes earthquakes inside me. My curves curse me to wear my ** Chromosomes like neon paint Warning sign: This person was born Female. Born into an imaginary category, Forced to conform. My mind Is at war with the mirror eyes staring back Those little details sticking out Highlight them, cutandpaste to another Body. Maybe this bandage will keep me safe from The gender police maybe people will be Confused and not ask Maybe they will ask For once and not assume. Maybe I'll lose enough oxygen that it won't Matter. Matter is all I am, atoms twisted together in Disarray and how can you call that Anything but what it is. I defy this binary, refuse to walk the PinkorBlue tightrope. Let me fall and land in purple. Let me live in the inbetween.

27

I wonder if you decided twenty years ago That this was the life you wanted. If heartbreaker was tattooed into your DNA ink flowing mixing with blood if this Was what you wanted your legacy to be: Fingers ghosting down girls' throats Lips planting promises into their brains Where your promise is a distraction Where you start to lose traction on Everything. But her. How long do you intend to break them Down while you wait for her to Say something that matters to you. There is a war path where you step And it is littered with crushed beer cans, Cigarette butts, hand grenades and Bombshells. Is this your legacy? It precedes you. I should have known when we first met That your smoke signalled fire That you would burn everything to the Ground. No village is safe around this Destruction. But go ahead, because this means nothing To you. With your fingers inside another girl If you close your eyes, she'll feel the same As the girl who's ******* with your mind. And if they taste like cheap ***** and Regret, if their skin leaves traces in your Sheets, if their feelings leave traces in your Brain, well, that's just a consequence of The no-strings theory. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you're Always in my thoughts and you don't have ESP so you can't know this and I can't tell You. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you ****** our friend in more ways than one. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because it Wasn't me. I would hate myself for being another Tongue you wish was hers, But the closest I can get to you is through The heat of your skin, and I want to know How to twist you inside out. So I'm sorry this is messy and confusing and emotional but I read what she wrote and Threw up my heart. You did this. You'll keep doing this. I can't stop wanting what I'll never have. Happy ******* birthday.

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Nov 7, 2014

Nov 7, 2014 at 11:48 AM UTC

Destroyer of Worlds

I wonder if you decided twenty years ago That this was the life you wanted. If heartbreaker was tattooed into your DNA ink flowing mixing with blood if this Was what you wanted your legacy to be: Fingers ghosting down girls' throats Lips planting promises into their brains Where your promise is a distraction Where you start to lose traction on Everything. But her. How long do you intend to break them Down while you wait for her to Say something that matters to you. There is a war path where you step And it is littered with crushed beer cans, Cigarette butts, hand grenades and Bombshells. Is this your legacy? It precedes you. I should have known when we first met That your smoke signalled fire That you would burn everything to the Ground. No village is safe around this Destruction. But go ahead, because this means nothing To you. With your fingers inside another girl If you close your eyes, she'll feel the same As the girl who's ******* with your mind. And if they taste like cheap ***** and Regret, if their skin leaves traces in your Sheets, if their feelings leave traces in your Brain, well, that's just a consequence of The no-strings theory. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you're Always in my thoughts and you don't have ESP so you can't know this and I can't tell You. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because you ****** our friend in more ways than one. I'm sorry I'm so bitter because it Wasn't me. I would hate myself for being another Tongue you wish was hers, But the closest I can get to you is through The heat of your skin, and I want to know How to twist you inside out. So I'm sorry this is messy and confusing and emotional but I read what she wrote and Threw up my heart. You did this. You'll keep doing this. I can't stop wanting what I'll never have. Happy ******* birthday.

51

Two people walk into a bar: A woman, early twenties, permed-up, puffed-out hair Horn-rimmed glasses thicker than coke bottle bottoms Fresh out the ivory tower eager to learn eager to become who she needs to be Parlez-vous français? She does, Her tongue speeding over conjugated verbs Flying effortlessly through another language, she is ready To move to Paris, la ville de l’amour, The City of Lights, the City of Untold Possibilities She is ready, she thinks, To fall in love. A man, earlier twenties, close-cropped, clean-shaven hair Sea-green eyes and 20/20 vision-placid ocean Fresh out Basic Training eager to act eager to become who he needs to be Do you read me, Sir? He does, His spine rigid from standing straight and tall, Hand crooked at his forehead in an involuntary salute, he is ready To build fighter jets with his oil-stained hands To build a life for himself with his carpenter’s fingers To build a house on the stability he thrives in He is ready, he thinks, To let someone in. Two people walk into a bar: A man, an Army graduate, an old soul A woman, a College graduate, a kind soul Guitar riffs floating from the jukebox drift through the air, Playing the background music for newfoundlove story. Two people walk into a bar: Friends introduce them to each other, She thinks, Those green eyes sparkle with the sun freckling his cheeks Reddening his hair. She thinks, Maybe he’s the one. He thinks, That perm really works for her frames her face what a pretty smile. He thinks, Maybe she’s the one. Two people walk into a bar: Sit down, have a drink, Share some laughs, funny stories, Break the ice with awkward questions, Eat some food, too shy to share it Get some drinks, guzzle liquid courage, Dance to the jukebox buzz Look a little silly but pretend they don’t care. They don’t care. Two people walk into a bar: Maybe they leave hand-in-hand, Maybe they hug goodbye at the door. Maybe they think about each other and call right away. Maybe they set up more dates, more bar trips, more laughs. Maybe they already know that they are in love. Two people walk into a bar: Their history writes its own punchline.

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Oct 30, 2014

Oct 30, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC

Two People Walk into a Bar

Two people walk into a bar: A woman, early twenties, permed-up, puffed-out hair Horn-rimmed glasses thicker than coke bottle bottoms Fresh out the ivory tower eager to learn eager to become who she needs to be Parlez-vous français? She does, Her tongue speeding over conjugated verbs Flying effortlessly through another language, she is ready To move to Paris, la ville de l’amour, The City of Lights, the City of Untold Possibilities She is ready, she thinks, To fall in love. A man, earlier twenties, close-cropped, clean-shaven hair Sea-green eyes and 20/20 vision-placid ocean Fresh out Basic Training eager to act eager to become who he needs to be Do you read me, Sir? He does, His spine rigid from standing straight and tall, Hand crooked at his forehead in an involuntary salute, he is ready To build fighter jets with his oil-stained hands To build a life for himself with his carpenter’s fingers To build a house on the stability he thrives in He is ready, he thinks, To let someone in. Two people walk into a bar: A man, an Army graduate, an old soul A woman, a College graduate, a kind soul Guitar riffs floating from the jukebox drift through the air, Playing the background music for newfoundlove story. Two people walk into a bar: Friends introduce them to each other, She thinks, Those green eyes sparkle with the sun freckling his cheeks Reddening his hair. She thinks, Maybe he’s the one. He thinks, That perm really works for her frames her face what a pretty smile. He thinks, Maybe she’s the one. Two people walk into a bar: Sit down, have a drink, Share some laughs, funny stories, Break the ice with awkward questions, Eat some food, too shy to share it Get some drinks, guzzle liquid courage, Dance to the jukebox buzz Look a little silly but pretend they don’t care. They don’t care. Two people walk into a bar: Maybe they leave hand-in-hand, Maybe they hug goodbye at the door. Maybe they think about each other and call right away. Maybe they set up more dates, more bar trips, more laughs. Maybe they already know that they are in love. Two people walk into a bar: Their history writes its own punchline.

51

12:30 AM. I am a ghost drifting through the midnight-quiet, haunting flower beds and grasses Undisturbed in their slumber. My body floats Through my neighborhood, stealing the Secrets of the dark. 1 AM. Ghoulish eyes peer out from Mrs. Butler’s bushes and Become miniature 3-eyed deer with antlers sharpened to Daggers. They roam about her dewy lawn, Feasting on worms and blinking, Slowly, one eye at a time. 3:30 AM Arrives, and they return to their hideaway home, Disappearing with one final b l i n k Into the rhododendrons. 5 AM. I never knew that morning tasted like Strawberries and honeysuckle and smelled Like freshly-cut-grass-mixed-with-bonfire-smoke. My Tongue is heavy with its sickly-sharp odor And my ears buzz from the tangy sweetness. 7 AM. Corporeal reality coats my body, connecting my mind to my soul, my Soles to the soil and I am incarnate, whole, A body amid the sunlit specters surrounding me. 9 AM. A mumbo-jumbo grin slides onto my face, Synthetic in every aspect of the word, My mouth is cotton-dry as I slink into the bogusness of a weary day. 10 AM. Crowds of people smoosh together, their words co-mingling And I crash my bike into strung-together sentences, Scraping my knees on the voracity of barbed words. 11. “She’s a constant damsel-in-distress, but she doesn’t work in a strip joint!” I step around the shards of her fallen tiara as I climb the ivory-tower’s steps. 12. My wide eyes view futility as a type of texture, and I imagine it feels like sandpaper. My first class feels like sandpaper-futile in this struggle to stay awake. 13. Bicycling to la clase de Español se siente como moviéndose a través de melaza. Mis pies cansados empujar los pedales pero I can’t escape the quicksand around me. 14. Reading the thoughts of my classmates helps to pass the time, and I can see clearer through closed-eyelids than open eyes. 15. Red walks among their peers, watching for passing dogs and smiling at them. Red is Hyperaware of people they knew from past school and recalls names and faces in seconds. Red is A zombie trudging on shaky legs, lumbering down the bricked path. 16. Murky sunlight streams through tired clouds and blinking is a visceral kind of pain. 17. My poetry stews in my brain, rotting and fermenting until it becomes a fine wine. 18. Trees wish me good luck, waving their branches affirmatively as I pass by. Their comforting Footsteps warm my soul. 19. Darkness steals the sun’s warmth but I’ve hours more to be awake. 20. I am a ghost floating through this sea of people. I drift through them, haunting their conversations Haunting my own quiet mind.

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Oct 21, 2014

Oct 21, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC

Insomnia-Drenched Observations

12:30 AM. I am a ghost drifting through the midnight-quiet, haunting flower beds and grasses Undisturbed in their slumber. My body floats Through my neighborhood, stealing the Secrets of the dark. 1 AM. Ghoulish eyes peer out from Mrs. Butler’s bushes and Become miniature 3-eyed deer with antlers sharpened to Daggers. They roam about her dewy lawn, Feasting on worms and blinking, Slowly, one eye at a time. 3:30 AM Arrives, and they return to their hideaway home, Disappearing with one final b l i n k Into the rhododendrons. 5 AM. I never knew that morning tasted like Strawberries and honeysuckle and smelled Like freshly-cut-grass-mixed-with-bonfire-smoke. My Tongue is heavy with its sickly-sharp odor And my ears buzz from the tangy sweetness. 7 AM. Corporeal reality coats my body, connecting my mind to my soul, my Soles to the soil and I am incarnate, whole, A body amid the sunlit specters surrounding me. 9 AM. A mumbo-jumbo grin slides onto my face, Synthetic in every aspect of the word, My mouth is cotton-dry as I slink into the bogusness of a weary day. 10 AM. Crowds of people smoosh together, their words co-mingling And I crash my bike into strung-together sentences, Scraping my knees on the voracity of barbed words. 11. “She’s a constant damsel-in-distress, but she doesn’t work in a strip joint!” I step around the shards of her fallen tiara as I climb the ivory-tower’s steps. 12. My wide eyes view futility as a type of texture, and I imagine it feels like sandpaper. My first class feels like sandpaper-futile in this struggle to stay awake. 13. Bicycling to la clase de Español se siente como moviéndose a través de melaza. Mis pies cansados empujar los pedales pero I can’t escape the quicksand around me. 14. Reading the thoughts of my classmates helps to pass the time, and I can see clearer through closed-eyelids than open eyes. 15. Red walks among their peers, watching for passing dogs and smiling at them. Red is Hyperaware of people they knew from past school and recalls names and faces in seconds. Red is A zombie trudging on shaky legs, lumbering down the bricked path. 16. Murky sunlight streams through tired clouds and blinking is a visceral kind of pain. 17. My poetry stews in my brain, rotting and fermenting until it becomes a fine wine. 18. Trees wish me good luck, waving their branches affirmatively as I pass by. Their comforting Footsteps warm my soul. 19. Darkness steals the sun’s warmth but I’ve hours more to be awake. 20. I am a ghost floating through this sea of people. I drift through them, haunting their conversations Haunting my own quiet mind.

51

There are days when my body doesn't Support me doesn't Hold me close and Protect me. These are the days that I am a clay figure Molded by clumsy hands shaped With curves where there should be flat Planes where I exist to create a mask a Persona of who I am who I want to be. These are the days when I want to avoid My reflection yet check it to make sure it Matches what I want to see. These are the days that my reflection Never matches what I want to see where My insides twist in disgust and I want to Crawl inside myself and hide from the World. These are the days when I wake up Two hours early to prepare to layer first Binder then undershirt then shirt then Shirt then sweatshirt then jacket because The bulk makes my body a secret. These are the days when my body is a Secret that I never want to reveal when My steps are unsure and my face is set to Boy-mode. These are the days that I watch guys and Imitate them stealing their walks hoping I'll steal their identities so I don't have to Live in my own. These are the days that my heart fissures When I am called "her" when a pronoun Becomes an insult and These are the days that I wish my mind Wasn't so dead-set against my happiness That I could just feel "girl" that I could Just pretend it away. But these Are the days that I fight hardest to be who I Am and fight to educate others and Imagine a day when I won't be misgendered or gendered at all.

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Oct 19, 2014

Oct 19, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC

These Are the Days

37

My heart is racing skyward Racing against the moon and stars and my Ribcage. Beating everything in its path Catapulting upwards out of my chest Pushing through the atmosphere and Ascending to higher dimensions. My heart is a comet Shooting through space soaring Past planets trapping itself in revolutions Evolutions of life floating about My heart moves through moves Forward moves on. Oh heart! Stay planted stay firm stay rooted inside me! Do not leap to great Heights if you won't take the rest of me Higher too.

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Oct 18, 2014

Oct 18, 2014 at 4:01 AM UTC

Untitled

My heart is racing skyward Racing against the moon and stars and my Ribcage. Beating everything in its path Catapulting upwards out of my chest Pushing through the atmosphere and Ascending to higher dimensions. My heart is a comet Shooting through space soaring Past planets trapping itself in revolutions Evolutions of life floating about My heart moves through moves Forward moves on. Oh heart! Stay planted stay firm stay rooted inside me! Do not leap to great Heights if you won't take the rest of me Higher too.

14

Every time I talk about writing- My writing, my Frivolous scribblings-in a Negative light, you tell me, "You have to write 200 bad poems Before you can write a good one." And I have not known you Long enough to understand the Nuances of your speech but I have learned, quickly, that you Are poetry Now, this might sound cliche but what I mean is That when I see you with your bony knees and Isaac Newton hair my heart Dips backward in between my ribs the Fluid motion of your mouth flipping into a grin is a Chain reaction to my own smile your Piano fingers stained with ink or paint or dirt caked in life, In adventures, are their own language and the way you move Them when you speak makes a dance, a Twisty tango of gyration and gesticulation. Exhaling clouds of smoke from your lungs, you Frame your forehead with tobacco laurels And I don't worship you, no, but I admire you, In the way that you cultivate goodnaturedness but Hide behind it In the way that you discuss bigdeal things in a Nobigdeal way If you wonder why I like you, it's because you are Honest in a way that is raw and I've never Felt someone cut me in two with just a gaze. You are nervous energy and social anxiety and bred to live in nature. You are suave in a lanky way and still unsure of yourself. You are a star collapsing in on itself blazing so bright before you Burn out. And I want that. I want that easiness and integrity and Dancingontablesbecausewhynot and Singing a song you don't know the words to in a rubberduck voice. And I want you. I want you to want me, to Want to understand my nuances and quirks and hopes and fears and Why I cringe inside a body that I never belonged to. I want your poetry for myself. So if I have to write 200 bad poems before I write 1 good one, Regardless of where it falls-and where I fall- This one is for you.

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Oct 10, 2014

Oct 10, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC

Untitled

Every time I talk about writing- My writing, my Frivolous scribblings-in a Negative light, you tell me, "You have to write 200 bad poems Before you can write a good one." And I have not known you Long enough to understand the Nuances of your speech but I have learned, quickly, that you Are poetry Now, this might sound cliche but what I mean is That when I see you with your bony knees and Isaac Newton hair my heart Dips backward in between my ribs the Fluid motion of your mouth flipping into a grin is a Chain reaction to my own smile your Piano fingers stained with ink or paint or dirt caked in life, In adventures, are their own language and the way you move Them when you speak makes a dance, a Twisty tango of gyration and gesticulation. Exhaling clouds of smoke from your lungs, you Frame your forehead with tobacco laurels And I don't worship you, no, but I admire you, In the way that you cultivate goodnaturedness but Hide behind it In the way that you discuss bigdeal things in a Nobigdeal way If you wonder why I like you, it's because you are Honest in a way that is raw and I've never Felt someone cut me in two with just a gaze. You are nervous energy and social anxiety and bred to live in nature. You are suave in a lanky way and still unsure of yourself. You are a star collapsing in on itself blazing so bright before you Burn out. And I want that. I want that easiness and integrity and Dancingontablesbecausewhynot and Singing a song you don't know the words to in a rubberduck voice. And I want you. I want you to want me, to Want to understand my nuances and quirks and hopes and fears and Why I cringe inside a body that I never belonged to. I want your poetry for myself. So if I have to write 200 bad poems before I write 1 good one, Regardless of where it falls-and where I fall- This one is for you.

47

My bag smells like cigarettes My body smells like smoke My mouth is an ashtray But I taste just like you probably do I hate smoking Hate the harsh acidic stale burnt flavor it Leaves behind on my tongue, the Match swallower's favorite meal But every girl I ever kissed Smelled like cigarettes and smoke and Tasted like ashtrays So I wonder if I should maybe just get used to it

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Oct 6, 2014

Oct 6, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC

Untitled

My bag smells like cigarettes My body smells like smoke My mouth is an ashtray But I taste just like you probably do I hate smoking Hate the harsh acidic stale burnt flavor it Leaves behind on my tongue, the Match swallower's favorite meal But every girl I ever kissed Smelled like cigarettes and smoke and Tasted like ashtrays So I wonder if I should maybe just get used to it

12