mark number 1, the crack at the very top of your throat
for the times you've had to scurry out of the house
because it would've been too much time and too much noise to put on your shoes
mark numbers 2 to 12, for the number of tragedies you lack to write like a ***** to trick the devil into thinking he's a deity.
mark number 13, the crack at the very base of your throat (although sometimes it feels like it's at the base of your spine) from the brute force of all the words you've had to swallow but never rose in the toilet bowl, amongst all the other things you've purged
and boy,
have you purged your heart out.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 8:15 AM UTC
what she thought was a family portrait, was a lesson for what happens when you lose one side of a pair of shoes - you can never buy just one again, it comes in a set of two.
what she thought was a stove, was an analogy for the kind of love parents fail to tell - there's nothing more cruel than love, nothing will feel as good as hell.
what she thought were anniversary flowers, were rolled up versions of paper planes telling her mother she now had to use her grandfather's last name, or her mother's maiden name, if only her father had let it stay.
what she thought was his reflection (on a pretty grand mirror showered with lace), was nothing but a crack in the wall, and also the reason why her father never called.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
does it count if i come to your hometown and say i'm here for a vacation or does it seem more like a suicide even though you're four bus stops away and four bus stops away from you is where i'm going to stay four bus stops between what could possibly be a modern tragedy with a lot less poetry away from a cemetery four bus stops away
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC
i'm sorry my hands don't shake the way you expect them to i'm too busy trying to collect the ocean to have a weak grasp on you and i'm sorry that i can't build a road back to you the gravel in my throat has turned into lava and there's not enough dust on the walls to turn that lava into glue and i'm sorry that when i step on glass i cry out for you although i'm pretty sure you were the one who wasn't able to split that wine bottle straight into two but the shards kind of remind me of you and i'm pretty sure somewhere in this apology i said that i'm sorry for loving you
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
there are diamonds scratching my tongue and they call me ***** mouth"
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 2:00 AM UTC
at the time a polaroid was a mark of friendship
so we decided to go raid a photobooth
but the pictures never captured
they didn't get the time to
because across the street was a fancy new camera shop
with a fancy new cashier
who had pretty, pretty hair
and could actually fit into a polaroid with you
and i was surrounded by the walls of a madhouse
from inside the photobooth
because you entangled the curtain entrance
so i was locked in
i wanted to see nothing
so i stared directly into the camera lenses
hoping the flash would blind me
because apparently you're blinded and happy
but i hit the wrong button
and the flash never came
but there were pictures printed
just of your hands around her waist
i took about 50 copies
and taped them to the lampposts lining abandoned cemeteries
i tossed the receipt into the lake,
i scattered the letters of your name into the rain
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC
he is every single poem about the ocean in the world, and i'm supposed to be looking for some kind of sunshine.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC
i must admit i am in awe of the way you walk past the immigration office
(or the way you walked out that door, but we musn't dwell on things.)
like you have nothing to hide - like secrets float off your cheek
(it's rather silly how your secrets are much more obvious when you toss and turn underneath my sheets.)
therapists told me to take a journey well into my soul
(they told me to dive, but we both know i'm only capable of unintentionally falling.)
i love watching your hands loosen their grip on the sides of the aeroplane seats
(although remembering you loosen your grip on me isn't quite as pleasant)
they told me to visit my happy place so i threw a dart at the map
(but let's be honest - without you home already feels like a hotel.)
and it amazes me how now with all the rust you've smothered onto my veins, you still expect me to walk peacefully through airport metal detectors.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 8:32 AM UTC