Call a funeral
For the sadness
That had overcome my life.
Say goodbye
To the things
That had once given strife.
They told me I'd be happy
Now finally,
They're right.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:46 AM UTC
I carry the grief of you
between my shoulder blades.
Like stones in a heavy backpack.
I feel like I've just jumped into a river.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
I'm so sad I can feel it between my shoulder blades.
I ******* hate this place.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
See, my hands do this thing
when I'm nervous
bored
upset.
They tend to play,
to pinch and wiggle,
to rub my clothing together.
I bounce pencils,
I click pens.
And, please,
don't even get me started on
tapping.
Now, these are all bad habits,
carried out, unnoticed, by
restless hands.
But my favorite bad habit
is running my fingers through your hair
or maybe down your arm
or holding your hands.
But they aren't bad habits,
not then.
In those few moments,
my hands are doing
Exactly
what I want them to.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 6:06 AM UTC
We fell asleep in the sun.
The next day, your hand was still outlined on my back,
but you were gone.
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 6:44 AM UTC
There are days
when I am certain
that there is a god.
Because,
Somehow,
I found you.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:51 PM UTC
Red.
Like parting lips,
Shushed kisses.
Like high school varsity jackets.
Orange.
Like the shirt you wore
The day we met.
Like my least favorite color.
Yellow.
Like the lemonade,
So sour we spit it out.
Like summers we spent together.
Green.
Like minty gum,
Newly freshened mouths.
Like the grass I lost my innocence on.
Blue.
Like the pen I used
To write your love letters.
Like all the times we've cried.
Indigo.
Like bruises, covered
By jeans high on hips.
Like the nights we stained with lust.
Violet.
Like every single thought
Led back to you.
Like even the spectrum had thoughts of you.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
When I was young,
they called my Hurricane.
Because even my brother feared my wrath.
Because “so help me god,
if you touch me one more time”
Wasn't a threat he completed.
Because Barbie never seemed like fun,
And GI Joe kicked so much ***
“Hurricane”
Because the boys in elementary school
got punched when they called me names
And the boys in high school
Got slapped or pinched or kicked or flipped
Off for trying to kiss me without permission.
They called me Hurricane
Because if there was chaos,
it was me.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
Seventh Grade.
I wrote a poem about a solider
who couldn't unsee all the damage
wrought on his friends and brothers.
My mother cried.
Asked, “what have I done?
For you to write such
despairing things?”
Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.
Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest.
Freshman Year.
I got accused of plagiarism.
After all,
What could I possibly know
of the world's tragedies,
after a mere 14 years spent here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old girl would right. So
it isn't obvious.”
Sophomore Year.
I wrote about
the boy who held my heart.
Because that's what
15-year-old girls write about.
Or so I've been told.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
I asked him if we were okay
And,
“Jesus Chirst. What are you so
Scared of?”
And he rubbed his face.
“Loving me? or the fact that I love you back?”
I look down and,
“I swear to God, it's like you think no one should ever love you back.”
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 3:16 AM UTC