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Sep 28 · 338
The Rain
Kennedy Sep 28
an inconvenience is what the rain is.

it does nothing but forces me to fall in love with the softness from the people i let hold me. one after the other. love after love. i always listen to the rain too closely while i let the fourth lover of this lifetime take me in his arms.

he isn't listening to the rain.

he's letting his imagination run wild with the possibilities and scenarios that could take place in this room. my imagination runs to another lover who listens to the rain and imagines me too.

the rain is a nuisance. it falls too softly—the name of my burdens whispered against it.
never will i ever understand why my mother named me after something so troublesome.
Jul 26 · 409
Kennedy Jul 26
And sometimes—I go through phases just to feel whole again.

I think the moon said something like that once.
a moon phase is 29.5 days, and this one is the hardest by far.
Feb 26 · 627
Kennedy Feb 26
We say we want a garden. One that will be full of things that will nourish our minds, bodies, and souls. You take your pick. Roses, of course. A bundle of carnations.

"Lavender," I say.

It softens anxiety. Instead of a garden in our waiting backyard, I'd like to plant a new world inside of you. I'd pull back the layers of flesh that cover your bones and intertwine lavender in your ribcage, wrap them around your fingers, and replace your eyes with new-bloom petals.


A garden so full and surrounding every part of you. I pray they unravel the uneasy feelings in your chest, so that it may never tighten again.
He says that lavender reminds him of me.
Feb 9 · 678
Voix Faibles
Kennedy Feb 9
there's a voice in the back of my head.

it's unfamiliar and my body aches to know where it came from. it sounds like a song that i don't know the words to but the music and melody are way too familiar, and yet still not close enough for me to remember. it's a voice that's soft and gentle. something almost too shy of a whisper but loud enough to wrap itself around my lungs and make its way into my veins. it's a voice i hear in my heart. a voice that is no longer a voice but a hum that's now a part of me.

and i still can't find it. i don't know where it is. i've been searching the ever endless filing cabinets that fill up my mind. color coded and a voice coated in something so smooth i could've easily mistaken it for honey. there's no record of something this beautiful.

maybe one day i'll hear it, but for now i'm writing in hopes that i'll recognize this voice as mine.
my voice is still missing.
Jul 2019 · 738
Page 33
Kennedy Jul 2019
dusk makes its way to the tip of my tongue, and surprisingly, it's beginning to taste a lot like you.

it's beginning to taste like sticky peach halves; of artificial juice dripping from the home of your lips. the mix of sugar and honey and berries from the garden of a mess you decided to plant inside of me upon your arrival.

but dusk dissipates and my senses are heightened.

i can smell dawn on your fingertips, and see the stardust in your hair, and particles of the moon still stuck to your eyelashes.

i know i compare you to broken constellations and the revolution of planet earth, but you are what makes up the chaos of my galaxy.

bless the universe and the way she's given me to you.

may we rest in what's left of the worlds we've created for each other.
i don't know if this is to myself, my old lover, or the charm of a human i've been gifted with.
Jan 2019 · 622
For: Le Garçon
Kennedy Jan 2019
i'm doing really well at balancing what's real and what's apart of my imagination.

and what i really mean is that i'm good at keeping hope out of my heart.
For: The Boy
Jan 2019 · 495
The Mum
Kennedy Jan 2019
i'd like to think myself up as un chrysanthème; the flower of immortality.

if she, in all her fragile beauty, can survive the bite of a french winter—then i know i can survive you.
in her death, i bloom.
Jul 2018 · 2.0k
Fête du Cœur
Kennedy Jul 2018
and now the song is over. it fades into the background as it fades out completely and now it's just me in the spotlight. dancing with my arms and stepping with my legs, i can still feel the rhythm in my veins. i said the music stopped, but don't believe everything you hear, you see, because i believed it too. and for a moment, i stood quiet. i stayed that way until another beat arrived, which happened to be the best beat of all—the ever-slowing tempo of my heartbeat. it was thumping and bumping loudly from where my ribs kept it in place. i didn't want it running away like my feet were or flying into the air like my arms.

i’m keeping it a wild kind of classy and in time with my sweet pulse still bump-bumping away, and i didn't complain as my heart kept going, continuing it's work as the foundation of the slow and reckless melody that my head created for the time being. i won't remember this song tomorrow.

my toes are tapping and my fingers are snapping and my smile shines as i feel a howl coming along. i dance in my lonely with sounds trapped inside my body—these noises were something that i decided to make, and i swing as i feel my newfound freedom uplift me. i reach this high. i dance in circles. i touch the sky. i kiss the atmosphere, hold a star, make a wish.

"i hope this happiness never ends."

and still, it hasn't.
it's a party of the heart.
Jan 2018 · 384
The Holy That Is You
Kennedy Jan 2018
i'm falling in love with the breath of God thats releasing itself from your chest and blending itself with the filtered air coming from the fan beside our bed.

it's heavy and loud and it's in my ear, but something about the way it sounds, resonating in my peaceful casing, has me oh-so-enthralled with the way it's swirling in your lungs and coming out in waves.

you breathe with your core and i feel it.

your hand twitches on my thigh and i feel it.

it's so lovely—thinking about the air we're sharing. sometimes you take in too much air and it comes out in a snore, other times it's more than quiet and i have to make sure that you're breathing.

i hope you're always breathing.

and it's sad, but i think i'm falling in love with you.
slept on the phone, slept in her room, forever asleep in her consciousness.
Jan 2018 · 406
Time Lord
Kennedy Jan 2018
something happened to me yesterday.

i looked into your eyes and found absolutely nothing. not a flicker or an ash or even the trail of happiness that you leave yourself on days when you forget how to find your way back to me.

it was a funny thing, really, because usually you're more open than a dictionary, but there's not much to find—to define, to discover the root of that one word that you've been asking me about. you're more like a thesaurus to me. a couple of synonyms. you reflect one aura*, but i call it something else that means the exact same thing, just switching up the letters so it makes a different word.

but back to your eyes that didn't speak to me that day.

it was june, i think. but everyone called it november. or maybe i got the time wrong, or maybe it's the time change. maybe it's just me.

it's definitely not me.

i'm probably just confusing the time with the shape of your pupil that decided to keep its secret. dilated to the point where it nearly swallowed the entire colored part of your breathtakingly delicate eyes and shaped it like an analog clock—the iris, i was told.

but part of the aqua flecks spoke to me—yelled, actually.

it screamed, they screamed, "for a soul that knows it's purpose, i have seemed to wander from the bunch; from those who understood. comprehension on the topic of life where we are bound and forced to believe. why, my love, are we forced to believe?"

and i laughed at the way the corner of your eye twitched its inquiry, for i don't know, sky writer.

i can't give you answers to the questions that your mouth didn't give me.

you should blink, though. you're giving yourself away.
Jan 2018 · 453
Last Week
Kennedy Jan 2018
we spent our lives under a tree.

note that this was a cherry blossom, dear, because you've seem to forgotten.

but you've seem to forgotten more than we thought.

maybe a refreshment will bring back a couple of your washed away memories.

what's my name, and what's your favorite color? what color was the sky on the third day that you saw me; when that duck quacked a little too loud and scared you while you were writing at the pond?

i'll give you a hint.

my name is now a mystery, and your favorite color is that specific shade of red that decorates the sclera of your eye that i know you stare at when you're more than just tried. when your reflection becomes a second image.

but you told me maroon.

and the sky.

oh, my beloved, that sky was the color of sticky peach halves and wet cotton candy. the bubblegum kind. the clouds dissolving into the background beautifully, and the rest was blur due to the tears in my eyes that decided to block the rest of my vision and watch you too.

my line of sight fell on the wisps of your golden hair that blended in the worn-out scenery still loving behind your divine frame, and i was enthralled with the beautiful little wonder that you are.

and i'm so sorry that you can't remember this day the way i do.

but i wrote it down so we can replay these little lavish seconds whenever we need to.

let us both live in this moment endlessly.
to the girl who tastes like the next 70 years of my life.
Jan 2018 · 403
Kennedy Jan 2018
Sometimes, I pray for the blessing that I don't wake up.

I'd do the same tonight, but the way your arms are wrapped around me and the way your fingertips brush along each bump of my spine makes me want to live a little longer, breathe a little heavier, and spin in the wind that the Earth provides.

Keep your hands there, love.  

I'm awake and you don't know it so I'm taking advantage of this moment standing here, laying there in your strength, and loving with my bare chest pressed against yours too.

See you in the morning, my dear.
Jan 2018 · 13.2k
Kennedy Jan 2018
you are words.

you are crashing syllables that drip off of wilting rose petals and each letter is a star. you make up constellations while foreign galaxies drip from your lips. nebulae dance across your angel-shedded skin and particles of the sun hide under the freckles resting on your shoulders.

you are life.

the wonders of the cosmos that swirl in the pit of your lean and golden tummy, finding solace in the way you breathe in and exhale the energy of the universe that you created in the beating passage of my worn-out soul.

you are the universe's child.

and the stars that accumulate under your skin will explode. i'll inhale the stardust and debris, letting the particles of life that you emit pollute my bloodstream.
constellations dedicated to a lover who lost his way.
Jan 2018 · 350
Kennedy Jan 2018
i watched as roses bloomed around your rib cage. velvet petals wilting in your lungs and scratching your throat with every breath, ashes from its remains spewing against your words gracefully.

the flowing in your bloodstream were rushing waters that created a sound so heavenly; pulsating beats that rippled through your fragile veins.

a universe made its way into your eyes, glowing with depth of astronomical love. they reflected the starsdust that shimmered around your sun bathed body; orbs glancing upwards as they casted upon the heavens above.

and your sun kissed skin—shedded from an angel and stitched specifically for your freckled outline, sparkling with every stretched muscle on your body.

you were my world, a breathtaking wonder sculpted in the most delicate of ways,

and i was so ready to be yours, too.
Jan 2018 · 246
Kennedy Jan 2018
your return was my forgetting.
your arrival was liquid amnesia spilling into the cracks of my open wounds. your scent was the rays of forgetfulness that slowly consumed the lazy nerves in my body until i could no longer remember why i hated you so dearly in the first place.
you had the audacity to twist your hands, touch this intoxicated heart, and kiss these battle scars with sober lips. you turned my war into broken reputation and i know you thought i was gonna say peace, but peace isn't the opposite of war.
it's creation.
we fought these drowning temptations.
and we will keep fighting until our last breath lets go of its hold on the wind.
we are the key to continuation.

— The End —