Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
alasia Jun 27
He pulled me to the precipice of poetry, riddled my ribs with rhymes, my stomach sunk with sonnets, chest collected couplets, back bowed with ballads, each exhale was an epistle melting metaphors against his mouth.

If he would have let me I’d lift lyrics to his lips, deafened those doggerel days armed with arrows of aphorisms; I’d quell those cursory quatrains and offer an oasis of odes and hymns he had left hostage to my heart.
alasia May 2019
I feel as though I am a slave to destruction, knees nailed to rickety floorboards that creak against creation. I am head bowed, pleading for pleasure against the cacophony of the ******, washing white floors with grime. I am the harbinger of ends, an omen of unhappiness. I am question marks, red streaks, spilled coffee on loved words. I am torment, tormented by the ways I’ve been tormenting the things I love. I am oceans inviting and striking with no warning, hurricanes gently shaking before swallowing and devastating, promise land offering refuge and whiting out identities because nobody gets to be free. I am shackled to remorse, self hatred, anxiety. A prisoner of pain, daughter of broken glass, born in spider breaks, marked by shards and splinters. I am the whisper of ruin rattled through crows calling home across worlds and realms. I am jutted bones cutting into flesh collecting blood for breakfast and sorrow for supper, feeding famine to families I am familiarly unfamiliar with. I am cast away, fallen angel, victim to the rise of hope and sequestered from safety. Left to forage fight in fields long forgotten, to discover decades of indecency and be punished by punishing the lucky ones. The thinned wrist souls slipping from restraints, to make commodity of clear consciouses, and deliver doom promised by our ancestors. I am an agent of misery, a companion of karma, nothing more than a slave to destruction.
alasia Jul 2017
I should apologize for the days I am withdrawn. This is not what you signed up for. I should apologize for when I don't want to speak or communicate with touch or when I want to be without you but also do not. My indecisiveness is appalling: and I should apologize for that. But today I do not want words. I do not want to be felt because I feel you grabbing and pulling instead of caressing and comforting. You have not done anything wrong. I am just mean. I am just inside myself today and when you want to know what is up I want you to accept that I say the sky instead of pressing for more. My thoughts are poison right now. You shake me like a magic eight ball and I keep thinking try again later but saying not likely. I have the capacity to be kind but my words are pinpricks in your chest and every time I claw you with my numbness I inwardly cringe because I don't mean it, I am sorry, and I should apologize. But I can't. I can not bring myself to vocalize that I am not okay because you'll want to help and I don't want to be okay. Not yet. I want to hide in my closet and cry without company. I want time to myself today. But I don't want to hurt you. I am sorry. You are no burden. I am withdrawing. Not from you, but from me. I don't want to be kind, or resilient, or strong today. I just want to fold into myself, I want to be small and insignificant. I am tired of being fun and happy, it's tiring work. I need time to be low without an interrogation. I just want to be empty for a moment. And I should apologize.
alasia Jun 2017
Could you stay a while longer?

Your chest against my chest, your ear to my heart, in silence and syrupy breath? Hold on to my wrists, rest your lips on my neck: "the world is quiet here". It is ours here. There is nothing but your eyes, nothing but your skin, nothing but intimacy. The right kind of intimacy. The kind of closeness that makes me want, need, to pull you closer until you can not be any closer and you are still not close enough.

Don't leave me.

Please,

don't hurt me.

Sing me to sleep. I just want to sleep underneath the weight of the feelings that make my heart feel like it is sinking, losing itself to you. I want to be lost to you, and these feelings, and these blue patterned sheets but reality ****** my fingers until I'm clawing at your back like you're going to escape me.

I don't want to talk about how scared I am.

You will leave me.

Stare at me so I can memorize your eyes for when the day comes. Right now I just want to be with you.

Could you stay a while longer?
alasia May 2017
Emotions are sewn into every stitch I make as I remember. Crooked like their crooning voices serenading each other under the blanket of black sky. Off track like their entangled limbs. Long like their memories and short like their fights. She blew out birthday candles and I wished he were there: I didn't ask what she wished for. She dons her black sky dress, cradling their moon. She falls apart in the car as she sings alone. They say he is sleeping I know how he slept: beside her, facing her, living only on her breaths. She checks her phone like they are arguing and he has wrote her yet another novel. I sew her dress up to cover her heart so when it explodes she can salvage it later. She says she does not feel the right to cry I say he loved her and we are eclipsed by silence. By our guilt heavy hearts. She put on the dress today and I pray my work is strong enough to hold her body as she splinters. She quivers like the tires on his car when he would drive too fast, she can not touch him but she needs him to hold her. We hold her. She does not want to make a spectacle. We all want to come home to him in our driveway but we know better. My thread has kept her in place for the day: but each stitch in me is unravelling.
alasia Apr 2017
My nights are filled with nothing. No regrets, no mistakes, no happiness, or nostalgia, they are simply void. There are no sheep on my ceiling, so instead I count the boys I have passed time with. I meditate on their finger prints engraved in my mind- as if any of them had ever actually touched it. I follow their individual swirls to centres, to lips, and my own fingers comforting them, easing them, helping them forget. This is to the boys who I can remember, who I can separate from gropes and short dances. The boys who met my mouth with their eyes closed. I wonder if they think about the times? The encounters? Do they fluff our moments into their pillows, make room for our memories in their beds at night? Do they swallow instances like painkillers or stomp them out like cigarette butts? Do they even remember? Kissing me in the dark, squeezing their lust into my body in the morning frost? Rested heads against shoulders and wrapped arms around necks and waists? Does he remember my lips crashing against his after pulling off my shirt? Does he remember sifting through my chest like he was searching for my heart? Does he remember car headlights, streetlights, houselights, my lights- my eyes. Does he remember breaking me, remember filling my gaps, remember numbing me with his needle fingers, and does he remember warming me to another life? Do they think, do they realize their words and their touches were the air in my balloon? But there are a lot of hims, just as I'm sure there is a million mes but do they recall, do they think about me? To the boys I have lent myself to, thank you. When insomnia kisses me I know it is empty, I know I am empty, and we are just helping each other survive another nothing night.
alasia Apr 2017
Breathing is not an option here,
Pressed against windows to fill
The cracks:
Don't let the water in.

The streets are flooding.

Find higher ground,
Ink bleeds down pages scarred
With words:
Save yourselves.

The streets are flooding.

Home groans against the pressure,
Begging to break and snap with
Powerless moans:
Don't succumb.

The streets are flooding.

"Find higher ground!" I scream,
They glare at me for disrupting
Their silence:
They won't hear me.

The streets are flooding.

The sound pools in my ears,
I used to collect rain drops in
Clay pots:
I want to rush the waves.

The streets are flooding.

I am too scared of heights to climb,
The glass is fogging I am trying
To breathe:
Open the gates.

I am flooding.
Next page