victoria-7 - Hello Poetry

You don’t know what it’s like to dig and dig and dig in the dirt with bare hands digging toward fecundity I am trying to find the honest words Buried under our mother’s bones But all I have now is the dirt under my nails, and because I am a woman I set my bucket of soap and water down hard I scrub the blood out of the wood My knees tear open from supporting my own weight and soak the floor Every clean movement forward is erased by the brushstrokes of my own body Please Don’t tell me you know something about housekeeping My body is an apology I can’t scrub clean

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Mar 20, 2017

Mar 20, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC

victoria-7

In Progress

You don’t know what it’s like to dig and dig and dig in the dirt with bare hands digging toward fecundity I am trying to find the honest words Buried under our mother’s bones But all I have now is the dirt under my nails, and because I am a woman I set my bucket of soap and water down hard I scrub the blood out of the wood My knees tear open from supporting my own weight and soak the floor Every clean movement forward is erased by the brushstrokes of my own body Please Don’t tell me you know something about housekeeping My body is an apology I can’t scrub clean

13

This is not a breakup poem This is not me liquifying when I open my eyes in the morning This is not my furious animal tearing at my chest to control the thrashing inside This is not the bile that burns my throat And this is not the hollow in my abdomen This is not a breakup poem This is not your static sobs and back-breaking voice cracks This is not your acid apology This is not your deadly uncertainty And this is not the jagged shards of yourself This is not a breakup poem This is not the blood bursting from my scraped elbows and knees when I went head over heels because you promised you would catch me This is not my pavement-smacked stinging palms This is not the gravel in my wounds from when you let go too soon This is not a breakup poem This is not your whiskey bottle on the shelf at the foot of my bed, a gentle reminder that now I have nightmares alone This is not the toothbrush and the hair gel and the speakers and the things that have more staying power than you And this is not a breakup poem

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Feb 24, 2015

Feb 24, 2015 at 1:22 PM UTC

victoria-7

This Is Not A Breakup Poem

This is not a breakup poem This is not me liquifying when I open my eyes in the morning This is not my furious animal tearing at my chest to control the thrashing inside This is not the bile that burns my throat And this is not the hollow in my abdomen This is not a breakup poem This is not your static sobs and back-breaking voice cracks This is not your acid apology This is not your deadly uncertainty And this is not the jagged shards of yourself This is not a breakup poem This is not the blood bursting from my scraped elbows and knees when I went head over heels because you promised you would catch me This is not my pavement-smacked stinging palms This is not the gravel in my wounds from when you let go too soon This is not a breakup poem This is not your whiskey bottle on the shelf at the foot of my bed, a gentle reminder that now I have nightmares alone This is not the toothbrush and the hair gel and the speakers and the things that have more staying power than you And this is not a breakup poem

20

So this isn't a poem, but I wanted to share the tumblr I've created to house all of my poetry. My tumblr contains some of the poems I've posted here, as well as edited and completely new poems. From here on out I'll almost exclusively post on tumblr, so if you have an interest in any of my work I urge you to check out the link, and perhaps even follow. Thanks! http://victoriannpoetry.tumblr.com/

0

Aug 19, 2014

Aug 19, 2014 at 4:17 PM UTC

victoria-7

Switching formats

So this isn't a poem, but I wanted to share the tumblr I've created to house all of my poetry. My tumblr contains some of the poems I've posted here, as well as edited and completely new poems. From here on out I'll almost exclusively post on tumblr, so if you have an interest in any of my work I urge you to check out the link, and perhaps even follow. Thanks! http://victoriannpoetry.tumblr.com/

2

He made me into a god; only calling on me before the impact. Did my lips taste like salvation? Was there holy water between my legs? My body is not a place to be baptized in; if you want me, want the messy, fierce rush of blood that floods my cheeks. We cannot be reborn, our flesh is not divine. Ours is slowly decaying matter. Touch me like I’m rotting.

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Jul 25, 2014

Jul 25, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC

victoria-7

And He Had Fingers Like Tree Branches

He made me into a god; only calling on me before the impact. Did my lips taste like salvation? Was there holy water between my legs? My body is not a place to be baptized in; if you want me, want the messy, fierce rush of blood that floods my cheeks. We cannot be reborn, our flesh is not divine. Ours is slowly decaying matter. Touch me like I’m rotting.

7

Let’s not make this pleasant. I don’t want to sigh or breathe my memories into you; I want to spit them into you. I want to set you on fire with all that I’ve felt, and watch you writhe in the burning pain that is me. I will not put you out until I’ve charred your skin and can peel it from the bone with ease, just as you have done to me. To be clear, I refuse to be pretty. I want the blood to stay under my fingernails and the bags under my eyes to darken. I am not the daisy-freshness of spring. I am grotesque. I am skin and bone and blood and bile and spit.

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Jul 25, 2014

Jul 25, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC

victoria-7

For Girls With Crooked Spines

Let’s not make this pleasant. I don’t want to sigh or breathe my memories into you; I want to spit them into you. I want to set you on fire with all that I’ve felt, and watch you writhe in the burning pain that is me. I will not put you out until I’ve charred your skin and can peel it from the bone with ease, just as you have done to me. To be clear, I refuse to be pretty. I want the blood to stay under my fingernails and the bags under my eyes to darken. I am not the daisy-freshness of spring. I am grotesque. I am skin and bone and blood and bile and spit.

18

Us in Stanzas I sat down on the bench next to you and noticed you were smoking American Spirits instead of your typical Marlboro. I asked how you were doing and in the middle of your explanation you told me you really just needed a friend instead of something romantic. I smiled politely and silenced the scream in my throat as you read me two more of your poems. Then we got burritos. My friend hesitates when he confesses to me that he knows you, and you’re ******* crazy. He tells me that you once tried to open your veins in front of him, and release all of the poetry inside of you. I call you and you don’t answer. I spend the night worrying about you in a way that makes me sick, but not as sick as all the beer and **** By the time I realize I haven’t eaten all day I’ve been on the floor of the bathroom for two hours, as my best friend holds my hair. In between my violent retches I flawlessly recite Yeats’ “No Second Troy”. It’s funny, the things we remember. I can’t help feeling that now I’m a stranger who knows what your twitching leg feels like on top of mine as we sleep. Sometimes I wish I didn't spend those nights with you on your bare mattress. The next morning I go to breakfast with my friend and her boyfriend. I don’t like how uncomfortable their happiness makes me. I order what I always do, and even though I’ve been so empty the first bite makes me feel full. I never told you, but I still have pictures of my ex-boyfriend on my phone. I’m sorry, but the taste of his name had barely left my mouth when you kissed me. He was covered in tattoos and my parents never liked him anyway. My mom asks how I’m doing, and says she really hoped you would be different. I don’t tell her everything. I tell her these things happen. There is still time for you to be okay; I’ve been good, I’ve only panicked in the time between seconds. “Actually text me,” I said to you before you went home. You were nauseous and wanted to sleep it off. “When have I ever said I would text you and didn’t?” you ask. “Once or twice,” I said. “I haven’t kept track.”

0

May 3, 2014

May 3, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC

victoria-7

Us in Stanzas

Us in Stanzas I sat down on the bench next to you and noticed you were smoking American Spirits instead of your typical Marlboro. I asked how you were doing and in the middle of your explanation you told me you really just needed a friend instead of something romantic. I smiled politely and silenced the scream in my throat as you read me two more of your poems. Then we got burritos. My friend hesitates when he confesses to me that he knows you, and you’re ******* crazy. He tells me that you once tried to open your veins in front of him, and release all of the poetry inside of you. I call you and you don’t answer. I spend the night worrying about you in a way that makes me sick, but not as sick as all the beer and **** By the time I realize I haven’t eaten all day I’ve been on the floor of the bathroom for two hours, as my best friend holds my hair. In between my violent retches I flawlessly recite Yeats’ “No Second Troy”. It’s funny, the things we remember. I can’t help feeling that now I’m a stranger who knows what your twitching leg feels like on top of mine as we sleep. Sometimes I wish I didn't spend those nights with you on your bare mattress. The next morning I go to breakfast with my friend and her boyfriend. I don’t like how uncomfortable their happiness makes me. I order what I always do, and even though I’ve been so empty the first bite makes me feel full. I never told you, but I still have pictures of my ex-boyfriend on my phone. I’m sorry, but the taste of his name had barely left my mouth when you kissed me. He was covered in tattoos and my parents never liked him anyway. My mom asks how I’m doing, and says she really hoped you would be different. I don’t tell her everything. I tell her these things happen. There is still time for you to be okay; I’ve been good, I’ve only panicked in the time between seconds. “Actually text me,” I said to you before you went home. You were nauseous and wanted to sleep it off. “When have I ever said I would text you and didn’t?” you ask. “Once or twice,” I said. “I haven’t kept track.”

7

I am made of saltwater and glass and I am a hundred years old. I breathe in your cigarette smoke for a minute, you are in my lungs. Stockpile warmth, winter is coming to crack our hands. The light trembles and dissolves we are now in darkness. When you left our eyes were still layered with sleep. My fingertips still hum from the realization that we are made less of flesh and more of electricity.

0

Feb 4, 2014

Feb 4, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC

victoria-7

Untitled 31

I am made of saltwater and glass and I am a hundred years old. I breathe in your cigarette smoke for a minute, you are in my lungs. Stockpile warmth, winter is coming to crack our hands. The light trembles and dissolves we are now in darkness. When you left our eyes were still layered with sleep. My fingertips still hum from the realization that we are made less of flesh and more of electricity.

12

Body like an old house Rickety frame from where The termites have made their homes Warped wood and rusty nails Bones like beams Skin like plaster Hips sway like lace curtains Moved by the breeze Overlaying dusty glass Your tongue like flames Flick it out Set this foundation ablaze

0

Feb 4, 2014

Feb 4, 2014 at 9:57 PM UTC

victoria-7

Untitled 30

Body like an old house Rickety frame from where The termites have made their homes Warped wood and rusty nails Bones like beams Skin like plaster Hips sway like lace curtains Moved by the breeze Overlaying dusty glass Your tongue like flames Flick it out Set this foundation ablaze

12

We do not call ourselves poets We bleed when the light does Proof of our existence We are not poets We are translators We translate the heave of a chest Into ink Give words to the desire that burns sheets Leaving them full of holes Keep your eyes peeled And ears alert It floats through the air And we are still breathing in Something beautiful

0

Feb 4, 2014

Feb 4, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC

victoria-7

Untitled 29

We do not call ourselves poets We bleed when the light does Proof of our existence We are not poets We are translators We translate the heave of a chest Into ink Give words to the desire that burns sheets Leaving them full of holes Keep your eyes peeled And ears alert It floats through the air And we are still breathing in Something beautiful

14

Please don’t let me know When my lips have ceased to be The last ones you’ve kissed

0

Oct 30, 2013

Oct 30, 2013 at 11:44 AM UTC

victoria-7

Untitled 28 (Haiku)

Please don’t let me know When my lips have ceased to be The last ones you’ve kissed

3