Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
camps Mar 2018
my heart nearly stopped every time i had to cross the street
so let’s thank the queen for writing it down
before she’s just another thing i have to step over
all the rest have tickled my feet so far
and everything under construction reminds me that these days
the only remedy seems to be better luck and more cloud cover

i’ve been racing to crash on the couch
just to wake up to see if i have time for it all
and i want the stereotype to be true so i have nothing to cry about  
with the way things are going
you’d tell me not to be so brutal to myself
but the thrill i used to know is now paying its dues to the concrete

i was almost convinced i wasn’t asleep
when she whispered paris
nothing, everything may have changed
so this is not like anything i’ve never meant:

my heart nearly stopped with the regret of not talking to you
it's hard killing birds when you don't have any stones and
besides this time i think i've really done it
two days and this is already my favorite story but
second chances don't have to be so mysterious
maybe i just wanted to see you smile again

i should have said it w/o one of and the s after the L
still choosing o over x
and your pull showed my hands a home in the back of your denim
two across the channel makes the significant not so, if you want it
i’ll keep looking for you so long as you
don’t stop drawing me maps

if i died in my indecision then
your mouth showed me heaven
you’re the closest thing to purpose
i’ve ever tasted

i wish you knew how much i mean that
natacha | london, england
camps Feb 2018
.

i want to buy these mice a home so
that their presence helps keep the table clear
i think i’ll place it in the gap between the door and the floor
in the hopes of keeping the noise out and
of having at least one of us feel
a sense of being welcome

the paper bags in my hands wouldn’t feel
heavy if they knew where they were going maybe
and hitting my head against the bed again doesn’t stop me from
showing off the letters on my chest although
i’ve been known to miss the mark

if there's a spark in her eyes it’s 'cause she stole the light from mine
but i like the cold because it makes me feel alive

my favorite part comes around
when the two trains meet and for a second
i can catch a glimpse of everyone’s place in the world
before we’re whisked away to
our respective loneliness

or maybe it’s where the streets
run narrow like those in the places where
connection, if anything, tastes a bit more genuine
it's quite polarizing but this time i’ll seek
comfort in the grey of it until it
all comes rushing back

they say home is where the heart is so this probably still isn’t it
but it will do for now

.
[new york city] | [definition of home] | [pursuit of cold]
  Jan 2018 camps
b
I really thought I found her
  Oct 2017 camps
Allison
We were drinking coffee when
depression showed up at the door of the home we built, pounding.
Eviction notice in hand,
your soul parceled out into donation bins.
Foreclosure sign,
caution tape around the chest that I slept on for a year.

I sit out in the sun
to bleach the tan line from my ring finger.
I hold cold cups and shake strangers’ hands
to erase the mould of your grasp from mine.
I want to sear off my palms.

I miss even those nights when you looked at my fire and laughed.
So I make you coffee (but I know I make it wrong);
your ghost in this house still criticizes.

I made you coffee every day because it was all I could do;
my only way of getting into you, a vector.
As the hot brew flowed past your heart, I watched,
like a child at Christmas, hoping you’d feel my love.
Hoping the glaze would clear up from your eyes.

I only wish this were a bond that stayed,
that stayed when your mind put plugs in your ears:
when I screamed and screamed that I loved you,
that I’d rock every little thing you regret to sleep.

I went to the doctor about this dizziness.
He checked my ears, he asked why my eyes were red.
This vertigo--a hurricane made by the page turning in my life.
I am a bag in your wind.

The day you left I wrote you a recipe for how you like your coffee,
because you don’t know, but I have it memorized.
My handwriting changes halfway down the page, as I change,
as you drive farther and farther away.

Our love is a child I’ve carried,
now I’m bent over, sick.
Loss took your place in our home,
but it’s unsteady on its feet;
I have to walk it from room to room.

My name has been yours, possessive.
And although these days I correct myself and say ‘I’ during speech,
My thoughts are still ‘we.’
I still think about your lungs when I cough.

So I still make us coffee every day (but I know I make it wrong).
Next page