theamarysdejai - Hello Poetry

This is not a soft resting of the head, but a surrender. There is no seafoam to float on, but instead, bones made from the metal of the anchors of boats, heavy with the desire of returning to the earth. It is true, light does exist so long as the sun still burns. But here, in the depths of a cold that has never been touched by sunlight, there is only blindness. The sirens sing melodies reminiscent of the lullabies that fall from the mouths of mother and into the ears of infants. To be held, to feel at peace, these innate desires. To be unborn again. Fingers grip, the theory of magnetism and the body of an anchor. Here, there is blindness, a pressuring cold. Here, the sirens return me to the womb.

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May 4, 2020

May 4, 2020 at 11:50 PM UTC

COMPARING MY DESIRE TO DISAPPEAR TO DROWNING

This is not a soft resting of the head, but a surrender. There is no seafoam to float on, but instead, bones made from the metal of the anchors of boats, heavy with the desire of returning to the earth. It is true, light does exist so long as the sun still burns. But here, in the depths of a cold that has never been touched by sunlight, there is only blindness. The sirens sing melodies reminiscent of the lullabies that fall from the mouths of mother and into the ears of infants. To be held, to feel at peace, these innate desires. To be unborn again. Fingers grip, the theory of magnetism and the body of an anchor. Here, there is blindness, a pressuring cold. Here, the sirens return me to the womb.

14

What I mean to say is that I heard the angels weep when I first saw you smile. I imagined that there was an invisible string wrapped around my heart and tied to the corners of your mouth. When you smirked, my heart skipped a beat. Before that, your lips were parted, your mouth was open ever so slightly, and I have never ached so badly to kiss someone. I thought about how they would feel under the touch of my fingertips. Your eyes--the color of the soil of the earth. I've dreamt of being buried in both. So it goes--God created everything, and everything he created was good. And you are the firmament; you are the most heavenly, wondrous thing.

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Sep 17, 2019

Sep 17, 2019 at 6:32 PM UTC

Baptism

What I mean to say is that I heard the angels weep when I first saw you smile. I imagined that there was an invisible string wrapped around my heart and tied to the corners of your mouth. When you smirked, my heart skipped a beat. Before that, your lips were parted, your mouth was open ever so slightly, and I have never ached so badly to kiss someone. I thought about how they would feel under the touch of my fingertips. Your eyes--the color of the soil of the earth. I've dreamt of being buried in both. So it goes--God created everything, and everything he created was good. And you are the firmament; you are the most heavenly, wondrous thing.

10

But you will soon leave back to the place you have been longing for. And when you get there, another woman will find her way into your veins. She will pull my hairs out from your carpet, wash my fingerprints from your walls, and throw out my skeleton that you kept in the closet. She will try to lay me to rest, but I will always be restless. I will be doomed to haunt a heart that never belonged to me and to linger in the moment when our eyes first met. I cannot go back to the place I have been longing for.

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Aug 24, 2019

Aug 24, 2019 at 11:34 AM UTC

A HAUNTING or I’M SORRY, I SAID I WASN’T GOING TO WRITE ABOUT YOU ANYMORE

But you will soon leave back to the place you have been longing for. And when you get there, another woman will find her way into your veins. She will pull my hairs out from your carpet, wash my fingerprints from your walls, and throw out my skeleton that you kept in the closet. She will try to lay me to rest, but I will always be restless. I will be doomed to haunt a heart that never belonged to me and to linger in the moment when our eyes first met. I cannot go back to the place I have been longing for.

3

Daydreams that exist only inside of my head have been laid to rest in the corners of my mind. Lately, I’ve been looking at the raindrops sliding down my car window and wondering what that feels like to be water. I watched the approaching headlights light up the raindrops like twinkle lights, and my body began to ache for my childhood innocence, for the ability to believe in Santa Claus and his reindeer, in the tooth fairy, in the Easter bunny, and in the idea that I was always going to feel that happy. Lately, I’ve been watching everyone around me live, and I’ve been wondering what that feels like. My heart feels like a retired opera singer performing to the empty auditorium of my chest that she once conquered. I see my purpose as a single, insignificant star in the sky that I can never seem to find. My bed sheets have become a second layer of skin, and turning the **** of my bedroom door has become one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Lately, I’ve been reading back on my old journals, comparing entries that are a year apart side by side. “This time last year,” I say to myself. This time last year, I told myself that things will change. The only thing that changed is that I have made a jail cell out of a dorm instead of my home. I am a year older, but I still feel as anxious, exhausted, and defeated as I used to. Lately, I’ve been daydreaming that I love myself, about being happy, about not feeling out of place, about being where I want to be. “This time next year,” I tell myself, “This time next year.” This is the one mistake that I can never seem to learn from.

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Feb 4, 2019

Feb 4, 2019 at 8:57 PM UTC

This Time Last year

Daydreams that exist only inside of my head have been laid to rest in the corners of my mind. Lately, I’ve been looking at the raindrops sliding down my car window and wondering what that feels like to be water. I watched the approaching headlights light up the raindrops like twinkle lights, and my body began to ache for my childhood innocence, for the ability to believe in Santa Claus and his reindeer, in the tooth fairy, in the Easter bunny, and in the idea that I was always going to feel that happy. Lately, I’ve been watching everyone around me live, and I’ve been wondering what that feels like. My heart feels like a retired opera singer performing to the empty auditorium of my chest that she once conquered. I see my purpose as a single, insignificant star in the sky that I can never seem to find. My bed sheets have become a second layer of skin, and turning the **** of my bedroom door has become one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Lately, I’ve been reading back on my old journals, comparing entries that are a year apart side by side. “This time last year,” I say to myself. This time last year, I told myself that things will change. The only thing that changed is that I have made a jail cell out of a dorm instead of my home. I am a year older, but I still feel as anxious, exhausted, and defeated as I used to. Lately, I’ve been daydreaming that I love myself, about being happy, about not feeling out of place, about being where I want to be. “This time next year,” I tell myself, “This time next year.” This is the one mistake that I can never seem to learn from.

8

Whether basking in the sun or bathing in the moon, I will always and forever be thinking of you.

0

Jan 30, 2019

Jan 30, 2019 at 12:52 AM UTC

Untitled

Whether basking in the sun or bathing in the moon, I will always and forever be thinking of you.

1

I was never fond of alcohol. I guess you could say that I was afraid of it, or rather, that I was afraid of its side effects. I love you, but I am afraid of your whiskey breath. It turns your words into stones, your brutal honesty catapulting off of your tongue. You are dancing across a frozen lake, and I am calling your name from the land, but your voice has always been so much louder than mine. I am walking on thin ice, tip-toeing my way towards you. My outstretched hand is taken as an intent of violent reprimand, and your voice is getting louder. If you fall through the ice, then I will try my hardest to pull you out. But we both know that I lack the strength, and I know that you lack the will. You will tell me to run back to the edge, but who am I if I do not care for you?

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Dec 20, 2018

Dec 20, 2018 at 1:21 AM UTC

Falling Through the Ice

I was never fond of alcohol. I guess you could say that I was afraid of it, or rather, that I was afraid of its side effects. I love you, but I am afraid of your whiskey breath. It turns your words into stones, your brutal honesty catapulting off of your tongue. You are dancing across a frozen lake, and I am calling your name from the land, but your voice has always been so much louder than mine. I am walking on thin ice, tip-toeing my way towards you. My outstretched hand is taken as an intent of violent reprimand, and your voice is getting louder. If you fall through the ice, then I will try my hardest to pull you out. But we both know that I lack the strength, and I know that you lack the will. You will tell me to run back to the edge, but who am I if I do not care for you?

6

I'll never understand how the things that made us fall in love became the things that made us fall apart.

0

Oct 5, 2018

Oct 5, 2018 at 10:27 AM UTC

Untitled

I'll never understand how the things that made us fall in love became the things that made us fall apart.

1

My name is not one that is so easily forgotten. I’ve met faces who shake my hand and admit that my name has a familiar ring. It will wrap itself around your tongue, take shelter in the grooves of your brain, etch itself into your flesh, and make a drumbeat of your pounding heart. I am the red flowers that bloom in the Western Cape. I am the violet quartz, the precious gemstone, and I may be worn around your finger or wrapped around your neck if the month of lovers breathed life into your lungs. I am rooted in the grounds of Israel. I was promised by God in the Hebrew tongue. My blood is spread over the Middle East, my complexion is of light-bathed soil, and I am a unity of scattered heritage. You cannot forget me, no matter how you may try. I am cradled in the back of your mind. I live in shades of red, from flowers to blood. I live in shades of purple, from gemstones to sunsets. I am the embodiment of love, and I linger in every inch of this Earth.

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Aug 6, 2018

Aug 6, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC

Linger

My name is not one that is so easily forgotten. I’ve met faces who shake my hand and admit that my name has a familiar ring. It will wrap itself around your tongue, take shelter in the grooves of your brain, etch itself into your flesh, and make a drumbeat of your pounding heart. I am the red flowers that bloom in the Western Cape. I am the violet quartz, the precious gemstone, and I may be worn around your finger or wrapped around your neck if the month of lovers breathed life into your lungs. I am rooted in the grounds of Israel. I was promised by God in the Hebrew tongue. My blood is spread over the Middle East, my complexion is of light-bathed soil, and I am a unity of scattered heritage. You cannot forget me, no matter how you may try. I am cradled in the back of your mind. I live in shades of red, from flowers to blood. I live in shades of purple, from gemstones to sunsets. I am the embodiment of love, and I linger in every inch of this Earth.

21

I have locked myself inside of my car in the middle of the school parking lot. I can still hear the ringing of the bell that caused us to scatter out of the school like ants escaping from a disrupted colony ringing in my ears. I am no longer a fire ant, but a caged animal, and I’m not sure who the metal barrier around me is supposed to be protecting. I still don’t feel safe. I am thinking about how the glass at the zoos muffles the sounds of the animals, and how you might miss their cries unless you stopped walking and got right next to the glass. I don’t want to be seen, but, at the same time, I am hoping and waiting for people to stop walking past me, stand next to my car, and listen. I am laying down in my back seat like a wounded animal, and my screams are being muffled by me burying my face into the seat. I no longer feel like a caged animal, but a fish inside of a tank. I don’t know how long I have been crying, but I feel like I am drowning. You can’t hear noises in the water unless you are below the surface yourself. I feel like I am the exhibit in the aquarium that everyone ignores because whatever’s in the water is hiding under a rock. My head feels as though it will explode, I can’t breathe, everything is blurry, my chest hurts, I can’t stop crying, and I have convinced myself that I am dying. When my cousin was three, he would have died if my dad had not performed cpr on his blue, limp little body after he was pulled out of the pool. Now, he is eleven, and he knows how to swim, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t need water to drown. Now, I am wishing that I had been the one that drowned that day. I am sitting in a fish tank, I have no gills and I can not breathe. My screams are silent, nobody can hear me, and I am kicking the inside of the car to try and make some noise, but everyone has gone home by now. I am able to breathe again and I have grown a pair of lungs. I am sitting in a zoo after closing hours, and all I can do is practice my roar and try to be heard again in the morning.

0

Jul 29, 2018

Jul 29, 2018 at 8:04 PM UTC

Fish Tank

I have locked myself inside of my car in the middle of the school parking lot. I can still hear the ringing of the bell that caused us to scatter out of the school like ants escaping from a disrupted colony ringing in my ears. I am no longer a fire ant, but a caged animal, and I’m not sure who the metal barrier around me is supposed to be protecting. I still don’t feel safe. I am thinking about how the glass at the zoos muffles the sounds of the animals, and how you might miss their cries unless you stopped walking and got right next to the glass. I don’t want to be seen, but, at the same time, I am hoping and waiting for people to stop walking past me, stand next to my car, and listen. I am laying down in my back seat like a wounded animal, and my screams are being muffled by me burying my face into the seat. I no longer feel like a caged animal, but a fish inside of a tank. I don’t know how long I have been crying, but I feel like I am drowning. You can’t hear noises in the water unless you are below the surface yourself. I feel like I am the exhibit in the aquarium that everyone ignores because whatever’s in the water is hiding under a rock. My head feels as though it will explode, I can’t breathe, everything is blurry, my chest hurts, I can’t stop crying, and I have convinced myself that I am dying. When my cousin was three, he would have died if my dad had not performed cpr on his blue, limp little body after he was pulled out of the pool. Now, he is eleven, and he knows how to swim, but I don’t have the heart to tell him that you don’t need water to drown. Now, I am wishing that I had been the one that drowned that day. I am sitting in a fish tank, I have no gills and I can not breathe. My screams are silent, nobody can hear me, and I am kicking the inside of the car to try and make some noise, but everyone has gone home by now. I am able to breathe again and I have grown a pair of lungs. I am sitting in a zoo after closing hours, and all I can do is practice my roar and try to be heard again in the morning.

10

We are stuck in a memory, a time that no longer exists. Haunting the abandoned cavities of chests, the still chambers of hearts, we are living in a standstill. When we gather the courage to speak our piece, we are failed by the echoes reverberating off of hollow walls. We are waiting for someone to break the back and forth, to hear something other than white noise, the ticking of a clock, and our worn out affections that have long since lost their worth. We are ghosts living in the ashes of old flames, until life is brought back into these bones, or we are laid to rest in our graves.

0

Jul 29, 2018

Jul 29, 2018 at 1:13 PM UTC

Much Like Ghosts

We are stuck in a memory, a time that no longer exists. Haunting the abandoned cavities of chests, the still chambers of hearts, we are living in a standstill. When we gather the courage to speak our piece, we are failed by the echoes reverberating off of hollow walls. We are waiting for someone to break the back and forth, to hear something other than white noise, the ticking of a clock, and our worn out affections that have long since lost their worth. We are ghosts living in the ashes of old flames, until life is brought back into these bones, or we are laid to rest in our graves.

7