Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jen Grimes Jan 2018
Caught in the garden, in the rain
Reflections against glass
And I promised you, I would bloom
where I was planted.
Jen Grimes Sep 2017
The back of a pearl earring, a maroon scrunchy a bowl. Filled with jewelry silver necklaces twisted tangled. BIRDS OF A FEATHER blue nail polish. Crinkled bed spread white curtains ball point pen, scattered push pins. Black boots in the corner, one laced one undone. Half of a lit cigarette ashed on the window sill an imprint on the mattress, purple index cards splayed over a white desk its paint chipped. Glass mason jar filled with coins a barrette collecting dust underneath the bed. A guitar missing two strings a grey green flannel. Grey rug. Ray bands a phone charger a porcelain bowl, prescription bottle. Tie died lighter bear with a missing eye and bowtie. The dog chewed it off.
Jen Grimes May 2017

my lungs felt like glass bulbs and my head was full of the sea. I leaned across the glove box with my eyes closed. He told me that was the best kiss he'd ever received; maybe it was the mint chocolate chip ice cream.


from far away they were green, up close though, his eyes were blue. Definitely blue. A comforter beneath my tanned legs, his  hand against my thigh. His lips touched mine, gentle and innocent. We fell asleep to the buzz of the television.


algebra was another language, but when he spoke to me; I understood every equation. His kiss left my head spinning. Maybe the pencils held too much lead.


we spent the summer in a run down arcade. He had a freckle on his chest that I swore looked like New Jersey. Our kisses tasted of kettle corn.


his hands were calloused. I wish I never knew what cigarettes tasted like.


I could write an entire book about each time his lips met mine.


my sweater reeked of *** but he didn't seem to mind. When we passed through the halls he called me Jess.


it shouldn't have been him, but too much ***** can impair ones judgement.


we spent nights lying in the grass, it tickled my back. He gave me his lucky cigarette.


the room was dark and the stairs creaked. His fingers quickened the pulse in my neck. I kept my eyes open.
Jen Grimes Apr 2017
I keep having dreams about you holding her hand. Somehow I’m standing right in front of you but its like your looking through a pane of glass; sharp and see through, like there’s nothing left but your reflection. It’s always been about you; I knew that. But when you held my hand I thought you could read my skin like a page covered in brail.

I keep kissing him and remembering the way your hands traced my face. The moon left us in the dark, searching for the sun’s warmth. He made me feel like a piece of art, watercolors bursting from a canvas but he left me to hang on the wall.

I keep thinking that it’s better this way, but when I took out the trash I felt just like the aluminum can as it clattered to the floor. Empty and used. Nothing but traces of drunken fingerprints against a label that no one cares to remember. Memories rising to the back of your throat only to be swallowed down like a pill you take to cover up all the places where you’ve been broken.

I forgot that loving you was like pouring a bowl of cereal and then running out of milk
  Apr 2017 Jen Grimes
Tom Leveille
ground zero
i become aware of boundaries
i am a dog chasing cars
i sing your voicemail to sleep
there are no surgeon general warnings
to tell me that
the objects in the mirror
are more depressed than they appear
so how do i tell you
that there are parts of my life
that move slower
without you in them?
or that i look for you every day
in emails & unanswered calls
in the sunrises
i didn't choose to be awake to watch
that i sometimes still stare at doorways hoping you would walk through them
   *stage 1
you tell your new lover you've got a splinter and they pull the sound of your body falling asleep on mine out of your fingertip
   stage 2 your new lover says something at dinner that makes you choke so they call 911 & the paramedics do the hymleich not knowing you would ***** our promises all over the the restaurant
   stage 3 your new lover surprises you by cleaning the house & washes the shirt you kept next to the bed, not knowing it was the last thing you had that smelled like me
people always ask
what was loving her like?
after a really long silence
i just say
"it must be nice"
but i never say
it's watching paint dry
i never say
it's a window seat in hell
i don't tell anyone
about the dreams
where i am reading you
bedtime stories
each one is a different way you die
& every time i can never save you
dreams where what i think
are angels in my bedroom
are just homeless versions
of myself you never loved
i have dreams
where i pay someone to shoot me
just to see if you would cry
just to see
if you would cradle my body
i don't tell people
that loving you is like
playing piano
for someone who can't hear
that it's hitting repeat
on my favorite song
& forgetting the words
every time it starts over
that it's finding out
there's no milk after you already
poured yourself a bowl of cereal
it's getting locked in the dark
& being told to
look on the bright side
that loving you is like
being reminded of what it felt like
the first time
you accidentally let go
of a balloon as a child
it's drowning without the water
it's the feeling you get
when you start to dance
& the song ends
  Apr 2017 Jen Grimes
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.
  Apr 2017 Jen Grimes
Mr Xelle
Digging myself out the holes in my head cause I keep tripping on myself like "this sh** is deep". How can I keep this going if I'm already gone and fallen into pieces of me?
Next page