Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
All this blank space and nothing to fill it. Like a drain without a sink. A brain that can't think. It feels like my hot now tends to run cold. My writer's block is a brick wall, my muse is the mortar. I have a song in my heart and I tap my feet to its beat;

Draft. Delete. Repeat.
Eyes. Heartbreak is her sunlit memory barely held by a wooden clothespin. It hangs and glares before your eyes, mocking as it fades into an empty filmstrip. Heartbreak is a lost soul left to perish in her ghost-town, and warmer sunsets are lifetimes away. A wonderwall left standing, pinned polaroids, desperate scratches. You had fought hard and long, for this, but homes are made for breaking and crumbling and leaving, especially in the losing side.

Mouth. Heartbreak is a paper-tag of a goodbye caught in her lips. It is a metaphor that melts at the soft space under your tongue, a certain bittersweet taste made for drowning with a cold lager, a stranger’s whispers, and the perils of his unfiltered cigarette kiss. Heartbreak is taming a manic scream into a delicate, defeated sigh, out of sync with the way she breathed. But then sighing still hurts, and breathing still hurts because you’re alive – you’re so ******* alive for this unbuffered pain.

Chest. Heartbreak is begging your chest not to break amid a listzomaniac rush. Heartbreak is a prosaic throbbing, a treacherous ***** stuck in your ribs, begging to be held like it doesn’t hurt. Heartbreak is a site of buried lavender lithiums, asking for a eulogy; but silence is equally as oppressive. It is your body betraying you, like a city undone by its smokes. It is a quiet word – not a poem, because poems are beautiful despite the pain, and this isn’t. This isn’t.

Hands. Heartbreak is your shaky hand flipping through the last three pages of a tragedy — a heroine dies, a stray star falls, a maiden leaves on a horse-drawn carriage. There is no changing of the ending. Heartbreak is reaching for the empty space in bed, leaving your fingers in technicolored bruises. How can emptiness break one’s bones? Heartbreak is scrubbing your skin dry, raw, and untouchable where she once laid her kisses. Heartbreak is your nails digging through her letters in utter despair — for invisible ink, a promise in the postscript, an estranged lover in familiar flesh, only to find torn sheets, spilled wine, and finality.

Legs. Heartbreak is coming home to ***** laundry all over these cold, wistful floors. Heartbreak is walking in hushed tiptoes only to trip and fall down a memory lane – a kaleidoscope of all the wounds that can possibly hurt. It is catching an empty train to somewhere unloving her is possible – doable. Heartbreak is teaching your legs to run away from the chaos of her naked skin, and not to fall at her feet. But still, you fall and you fall and you break what’s left of your bones chasing after something that’s already gone – long before it has said goodbye. So turn your back and hold your heart — it breaks harder, louder, and worse before it settles down and sits as quiet aching: a forgotten filmstrip, a soundless breath, a calm poem, a serene night.
I woke up on your sixtieth birthday
And realized I’ve been with you
For half your life!
Yet to me it seems sometimes
No more than the blink of an eye,
No more surprising than a sigh.
Yet then, I think of the joy
The kindness and love
You have given me as naturally
As you might breathe.
Then the aching passion that began
Long ago, now burnished with time
Still burns like the fire inside a jewel!
And each day seems like a hundred years
In which I hold you even when you aren’t near.
I would wish for another half of all you are,
But then I realize, that would never
Be enough.
To my husband.
mama used to say
silence is also conversation.

however, this deafening ‘quiet’ is unnerving.
even the back and forth of the winds
between us seems to have died.

was it something i said?
or was it the things i didn’t?

whatever maybe, forgive me
cuz life’s short,
moments we’ve shared, are indeed rare
so please don’t let this eerie silence instead,
speak for the two of us.


© 2021
sometimes the passing of a few days seem like eternity. these last four days have been just that.
I bow my head and hide my tears from you
my ancestors swim in my bones
they cover my skin with a thousand years of
history forgotten
they dose me in their womb
and tell me to grow again
I bow and bow and bow and cry
my face ashamed
my race defines me then
so far I bow my skin raptures
and reveals my ivory spine
I awake rivers rising within
me
we all return to the earth
but I return to water
I am a fish drowning
rooted in decay
two lovers meeting
who created my
line my name
not even a bit is mine
my ancestors swimming in my bones
they ask me where it hurts
holding the moon in their hands
tell us where it hurts our dove
they say
and we will spread light there
they also say

but I am being carried further away
by the blistering angry brute
of a sun
and I crumble piece by piece

find me
my son my sun
find me
I am dying in a canvas
in the background
mi vida please look past the colours
mi vida mi vida
my heart is stuck in a clock forever in that moment
find me
before the sun eats me
before the paint fades.
  Sep 1 Cody Smith
Cné
in an omnipresent haze
of cerulean blue
and vivacious velvet petals
where irises swim in lovely chaos
as I mutter several choice expletives
under my breath.
He burrows himself
deeper under my skin
stealing the breath from my lungs
rousing my beleaguered soul
awakening a feral need.
I relish this murky maze of desire
he elicits from me
and hungrily
await his return
It’s been a while since I’ve posted, be kind!
I’m just here to visit
Next page