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 Mar 2018 The Willow
She Writes
Tell me this!
How can you cage a bird
When you fell in love
Whilst watching it fly?

i used to only write sad poems.


you see,
i am a cynic,
a cemetery,
a holocaust,
a chaotic, distant, lost girl
buried in her own

but with you
i am different.

i want to wake up,
keep my promises,
make up for lost time,
spill blood and ink,
try again,

for you.


you walk me home
and the skies blush
pink cloud summers

we part and i marvel
at the sepia tint
of backyard roses
blurring my lenses.

you came in
like the missing palette color
i never knew
i needed
my skies painted with.


now, you are all the love poems
i didn't know i could write.

and every metaphor i create
is just a lengthier version of
'i love you'

i really do.
 Sep 2017 The Willow
I’m sorry
I’m sorry I pay attention to your wrists
But I do it because you’re beautiful and unbroken and I want the whole world to know
I want everyone too see how beautiful your skin is that your mother and father made, and how perfectly imperfect it is

I’m sorry I pay attention to your wrists
But I do it because I’m scared and worried that I won’t be able to protect you more than a knife ever did
I want you to know how loved you are and how you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met

I’m sorry I pay attention to your wrists
But I do it because I never want you to ever be hurt again; by other people or yourself
I want you to know how strong you are, and that no matter who hurts you, I believe you can pull through because you’re amazing

I’m sorry I pay attention to your wrists
But I do it because every single scar reminds me how I was too late
I wanted to be there more and even now, I continue to miss you and worry constantly, fearing that you’ll disappear from my life and I won’t be able to be a better friend

I’m sorry
I’m sorry I pay attention to your wrists
I don’t mean to do it to draw people’s attention
I know you’ve gotten enough of that already
Quick glances or long stares
I just want you to know
I’m here
 Aug 2017 The Willow
Just Jess
The sky was pink cotton candy.
So was his voice.
Pure sugar swirled around itself in wispy strands.
Soft landings for hard truths.
Broken people refuse to be loved.

“I have to go,” he said.
The cotton candy brewed into cumulonimbus beneath his eyes.
It’s not you it’s me.
You’re perfect. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.
I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I need to find it.
Smooth hesitation.
Rain drops.
Petrichor filled the blue Honda.

She could picture a small cottage,
Somewhere in a forsaken corner in the wilderness of Norway:
Smoke billowed from the chimney.
A lone resident stood near the warm glow of a fire.
The lone man shivered.

“There’s nothing I can do to change your mind.”
Lightning cracked / Splitting heart.
His eyes smoldered with adoration.
He smiled apologetically.
Cotton candy melts when exposed to rain and tears:
Sticky confusion.
“You won’t find warmth if you’re running from the sun.”
Silent plea: please come back if you can.

The man in the cabin shifted suddenly and looked out the window.
Drifting snowflakes – building tufts of cotton candy.
If I can wafted out of the chimney,
Scented with cedar and rain clouds –
Singed with uncertainty.
Tainted cotton candy cannot be restored.
 Aug 2017 The Willow
Just Jess
When a car crashes,
Emphasis is always placed on:
The driver,
The passengers,
The condition of the car.
Nobody talks about:

The 32-oz. cup of Dr. Pepper that was in the cup-holder,
Spilt on impact, no longer someone’s caffeine relief,
Now sticky raindrops that will never evaporate.

The assortment of hoodies, lost math assignments, and Nature Valley wrappers,
Compiled over time into some strange mixture of-
Closet, black hole, and trash can,
Lifeless scraps of fabric, the dog ate my homework, and I’ll throw that away later,
Never to be worn, turned in, or thrown away – memories amongst wreckage.

The spare change in the ash tray,
Tossed into the space-time continuum for but a moment,
(Nobody called heads or tails)
Never to purchase a frosty or win an oversized bear at a nickel arcade,
But to permanently reside on the pavement-
Face down.
 Aug 2017 The Willow
Just Jess
The stars are always pinpointed
Against their dark blanket of sky -
As constant as the pool of patience
She always finds herself drowning in. Waiting.
The days seem to linger like a long spiraling staircase you thought would end
Fifteen flights ago - But you're sure that when you reach the top and step onto the balcony, you'll be greeted with a stunning vista - and you'll know the strenuous trek was worth it.
But it won't be discernible until every blister is calloused, until every muscle has ached, until every labored breath has been released into the uncaring sky.
Until every second lurches - towards an unforeseen time that seems completely off the watch.
She isn't a patron of time because time is wind-
Wind erodes, disintegrates, deteriorates, and plunders.

There is a photograph of him and her pinned
To a plaster wall that was painted dark blue -
The photo flutters against the pressure of time,
but it is not threatened.
He is constant - a tangible, absolute gravity
That pulled her into his orbit.
In that safe harbor, the wind cannot lash at their hearts
Despite the geographical distance between them.
The infinite Universe pays no homage to time,
But it does respect gravity, orbits, inertia, and
The forces that keep the stars
from falling
out of the sky.
 Aug 2017 The Willow
Just Jess
To the beat of a piano he stole
her heart.
In the same melody
and measure, he broke and left
it crumpled - crushed - crescendo.
Nothing but brittle - bruised - broken.
Out of tune.
Missing keys.

Mixing tears with toothpaste
and listening to a heartrending piano play.
Salt and ivory.
Colgate and ebony.
Repeat. With
Rhythm. There are
no words to this song.
Say something.
Silence - fortissimo.

Toothpaste and tears
trickle down the drain.
At the conductor's swift notion -
she remembers herself with love -
Adagio -
Then steps off her tear-stained
stage of a soapbox.
Al niente.
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