i wait for when
the clocks will stop ticking
so time can take its place
Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter
the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile
they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world
they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you
but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
you can't even bring real flowers
because they'd attract bugs
and make a mess.
wilting petals are a hassle to sweep up.
are as good as it gets
for the dead
Everything feels so artificial.
It's better to be losing her in books
than losing her to someone else.
see that house on the corner? the one with blue shutters.
I used to live there, you know.
and I had a room.
my very own room
with lilac walls and smooth wooden floors
perfect for twirling and sliding and slipping
and huge bay windows, my eyes to the world
that I’d draw on some misty mornings
and I loved how my fingers could wipe away the blur
and I’d look out at the stars and dream.
I had toys there, you know.
lots of dolls and bears and crayons.
sometimes I’d line them all up and sing for them.
and they’d clap their hands and paws and cheer and throw flowers
with petals crafted from light-years of imagination
and we’d build tents together out of blankets and chairs
and tell spooky stories and cuddle when we got too scared.
I knew every nook and cranny in that room
every creaky floorboard, every crack in the plaster
was music to my ears, was a familiar face
I knew it all by heart
like a song from my princess movies
which I loved very much, you know.
then one day we moved.
we packed up our memories
in boxes piled to the sky
and my teddies and dolls cried
from their bins in the van.
and I stood in the doorway of my empty room
just looked around for a while, you know.
and there were no tents or dance shows or anything.
not even one stray sock.
just bare lilac walls and smooth wooden floors
I tried twirling and sliding and slipping, but I couldn't.
everything I loved was no longer mine.
my friends were just absent furniture and toys
had they ever been anything more? I thought
as I climbed down the stairs
and I wondered if maybe a new girl would move in
and I wondered if she’d take my dolls and bears and crayons.
I wish more than anything to be a little kid again.
I guess I write in third person
so I can pretend that my feelings