I remember when we were
sickly brains and visible bones
and there was something so romantic
The night you told me I was beautiful
and I laughed.
And I laughed.
And I laughed, because
who knew those words would mean so much
until you left me.
We would watch the clouds and talk about
how they were meant to be on the ground
You joked that you were jealous, and you’d be a cloud one day.
If i’m honest, i didn’t really understand what you meant
i didn’t really know, and i still don’t know but
i do know
that when i look at the clouds
all i see
he makes me feel more dead than alive
and i thought it was the opposite
until i realised
i have craved being empty for so long
i count calories on my phone
because habits are hard to break.
i swear every time that
this pack of cigarettes will be the last
and then i find myself
and crawling up the stairs when i'm too drunk
is a tradition i never missed
because it never left to begin with
(i can't write good poetry when i'm tired
so i'm sorry if this isn't to your liking)
giving myself a **** TED talk every time i want to get out of bed is
to say the least
and it's cloudy -- i could make some metaphor
about how the sun doesn't shine
but i know you like metaphors
and cloudy days
so i don't.
i wrote a song today.
i swear to god if i write one more ****
i am going to lose it
i was nine years old
when my body decided it could no longer
follow the marbled features of inspirations before myself
my slender, sculpted legs gave rise to thick
resisted against me
and by then i thought
i would never
walk on the runways in high rise new york city buildings
bright city lights to highlight my flaws
my hips just as expansive as the judgment
they give way to scrutiny--
i pity the paintings trapped inside the louvre
i too despise the cold gaze of unwanted audiences
who complain of travel
who complain of coming such a long way
for a disappointment.
the day you died
wrapped the delicate parts of myself up
in old blankets i had last used
seeing your mother for the first time after wasn't
searching her eyes for the memories of you
(the baby pictures were my favourite)
you had such little hands.
some nights i feel powerful
like i have the energy
to entertain crowds of the strangers i live with
who get drunk off cheap alcohol in my living room.
empty plastic cups turned over, sticky red wine
carelessly splashed across linoleum tiles
kind of like how it feels when you get your heart broken
the sort of mess you are left to clean up alone.
the drunken stumbling, praying to make it to the bathroom in time
nobody notices the spilled wine until the morning
the frantic scrubbing so the ants wandering are not forced
to pull off their limbs
waiting for someone to save them.