Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Carla Michelle Nov 2014
"We'll be together, on the anniversary
of the day I got deflowered."
"Funny how you call it that"
he said
"What do you want me to call it?"
"The first day we made love"
he said.
A brief conversation I just had with my boyfriend.
Carla Michelle Jul 2014
Familiarity in the sea
of everything that would be,
could be abruptly switched over
to some routine
you did not
remember.

May it not be the same
house, when I wake
to keep me warm,
to keep me sane?
And when I wake,
will there be a different odor
to the sheets
stained with familiar
love affairs?
And when I wake,
may I not remember
the hands that could
change my mood
from alone to
deeply satisfied?
And when I wake,
should I not have memorized
the shape of your fingertips,
the walls of your cave,
nor the smell of your linens,
that shall be the day,
when I will start to remember
that I could not bare the
lonely dismissal of your longing
return.

When I wake,
I need to remember.
For everything you are
I am.
And I am far to
deep, to forget you
my dear Sun*.
Carla Michelle Feb 2014
There it is, a feeling,
that leaves your fingertips
trembling in such thrall.
Never did I hand you such
permission to enter the realm
in which I resided, and
place your grimy hands on me,
and push.
My head tries to fathom
exactly what you
have deemed upon me,
though, it
simply cannot.
Take your hands
off of my body,
for I cannot acquire such
pleasurable aesthetics.
Mentally nor physically
can I take you,
though, I must.
*Because God,
you're the most
beautiful head **** I've
ever had.
Carla Michelle Apr 2014
And there may be no easy
way to tell you
that you're a *******
mess.
You're everywhere
though
it seems like you're
absence in space.
And,
if we're being blunt,
then make it known
that you're like
a storm that has taken
my home.
Though here we are,
we just lay.
Pulling my hoodie
above the brain.
And with the time,
you gave me to ponder
I made it known that
I was merely the
cloud
that has been dying to find
my own little sky,
inside of the storm,
she ignited.
**But, you're still a ******* mess.
And I can't stand
not being able to
not stand you.
Carla Michelle Feb 2014
I'm sure it was a piece of art,
the letter you wrote,
the words on the paper
you probably brought it to life.
I didn't do it,
because I'm glad you didn't.
Carla Michelle Dec 2015
Monday mornings we're meant to
be sat down, handed coffee, and weakened.
I didn't know you wanted to be heard.
I wrote my headline for you.

Tuesday mornings are the equivalent
to the morning after, sudden and hungover.
I should have known you were decomposing.
I moved waters for you.

Wednesday evenings I had the time to cry.
I had the time to clean up my act
and to forget the morning.
You should have seen my bones.
I was starved for you.

Thursday nights felt like I could take
boat rides, through the seas of lovers lost
and lovers dead.
You should have felt how corrupted I was.
I sold my soul for you.
To be a writer, everything is for you.
Carla Michelle Jun 2015
our bodies danced to the sight
of the night saying its goodbyes,
until the morning light
had reached my eyes.
I believe I could smell the spring
in the air,
every time I tried not to swear.

an affair turned bitter in time.

pinned up against the wall,
I last recalled,
to feel such lust from a living room
came as a surprise.
my hands, my mouth so
intertwined with white lies,
my eyes could not see,
the affair within me.
Carla Michelle Sep 2015
I found the Lord
in your overwhelming eyes,
in the cozy breaths
riding, like waves down my shoulders.

I found the Devil
in your heart-aching hands,
in the mean grip you used
when touching me,
almost like a strip of fire
set aflame on me,
during Antarctica's iciest
breeze.

I found heaven
when inhaling ashes of my
gone lungs,
as I found my youth on your
bedroom floor.  

I found the underworld
when washing away
****** sins,
the morning after.

I found the galaxy, in the dead sky,
staring out a window.
Carla Michelle Oct 2016
because i know you
because i have felt you
in the shower
in the back of a cherry red
Jeep Laredo
because the last time we spoke
you confessed you ate
Peppermint York Patties
because they remind you of me
because i should have never
been to scared
to say "i'm scared"
because your laugh makes me
laugh
because i see Christmas lights
in your eyes
because i am beautiful to you
because i am always
always going to remember
*** in a motel room
*** on your cheetah comforter
*** on the leather couch
because i will never forget how i felt
like i had died
when i let you go
because your drug habits are
mine
because my passcode is still
bun
because i love you
too much
for myself to carry alone
because i need you to carry it
with me
because i love you
too
much
for myself.
Carla Michelle Oct 2015
There will be a day, where you’ll wake up and realize something that’ll probably change your life. I had an honest moment not too long ago, and have had trouble putting it into words. To be completely honest, a little cliche even, I felt the fall hit me in the gut and I gave in. I gave in to the slight chill in the breeze that flew by my bare face and yes, I wished for more of it. Typically like the entire human race yearns for more and more of things until, well frankly, they just get bored. I had someone recently tell me: “ If you don’t look for it, the finding will be much more spectacular” and there came my honest moment throwing me a slightly irritating wack in the jaw. I did my finding after the found and I couldn’t quite find it. Bare with me, now with the story of how I was found without finding.

I was once a girl that wanted to be wanted, to be held, and to be the one someone held on to. I was the girl who asked instead of holding hands to hold fingers, because it made me feel something different. I was the girl who chose to stay the “findee” because I felt that was where the magic happens. I then became the girl who had no idea who she was, I became the girl who didn’t want to find anymore.

It was then a Monday, when the finding took place. I was found and the finding was not done by me, rather another “findee” in training.

I found that you can smell the seasons change and feel the weather drop. I also found that having the seasons fly away so rapidly is the reason why you’d have to sit the **** down and enjoy it. I had an honest moment when I realized that I love it when my bed is ragged and unmade at all times and when I take a swing of emotions when I’m drunk and alone. I love it because I know people don’t want to admit it’s a ****** time, this thing called “becoming an adult” or “doing you” while it seems as if people are doing them, greatly.

Sit the **** down, and have an honest moment. Take in the changing colors of the leaves and don’t wear a sweater when it’s ******* freezing out. Let go of being the tired findee, and let it find you.

And for the love of God, secure it when you’re found, as it will be spectacular and all, it could fly away.
Carla Michelle Oct 2016
Two years ago I wore bunny ears and a bunny tail on Halloween at the exact same moment I texted you "Happy Birthday".
Twelve mini-cupcakes later, Two years later, I can't decide whether or not It will be a happy birth day.
Carla Michelle Nov 2013
Some say we scare them,
some just pass by and think
"**** delinquents."
But then some stare
and start to remember
the times when they
were this young
and had so little
running through
their minds.

My mother warned me
one day
about these "gritty teenagers."
One day
she was being warned.

You never ultimately understand
the minds of the people
that can't understand
their own.
But these people,
created a world
that has changed
on many different occasions.
This world that
is full of angst
and has smoke clouds
forming around
the most chaotic
people.

I wonder sometimes,
on off days,
how this is all possible.
How could I have found
such contradicting comfort
in the people
in the places
where I once used to be
scolded about.
I've learned to
accept that
it's just an off day
that has worked out
in my absolute favor.
And I never want to have
another on day
again.


We roam the streets,
yelling obscenities.
Or just sit in a
crowded garage
that never gets
claustrophobic.
We throw out conversations
about ***,
and have no care about it
because we're teenagers.
We flaunt out every secret
that we aren't supposed
to know,
and never keep quiet.
We comfort each other
when others
can't see the world
as clearly

as I can.

Sometimes I wonder
why people don't
approach me more often
to ask me
"Where are your friends?"
when they probably know
that I'm one of those
"gritty teenagers"
that'll respond with
"having a smoke somewhere."

and some days
I don't want to ask myself
if I'm ready to leave
the people
that I
ride in cars,
sleep,
slap,
*****,
waste my time
with.


I'm not sure
if I should
ever
be ready
to leave
the people I name
after the synonym of
male.
Carla Michelle Jun 2015
White dreams cascading
down my spine, down my
trembling thighs
with thoughts of slumber
close to you,
I must have been swept away
by this crystallizing sugar.

Heavy eyes, fluttering open
like an aloof spring day,
I have had my fair taste of
******* for the day,
yet it tastes rather like
infidelity and prayer.

Bitter to admit, yes,
this ******* has overthrown
my gut.
I have witnessed the curves of
it's chest and wrapped it's
spinal cord around my neck.

Platonic it may have ended,
yet my *******,
began with such a sweet taste.
Carla Michelle Jul 2014
So what if
I liked the sensation of your
bare skin?
Along with the lingering
charisma you leave on
my lips?
And what if
I found your briefs
with a scent of
infidelity and lavender
on the bedside table?
**Now, what if
I murmured
"I still love you."
and under your boiling skin
you smelt
the truth run itself out of my
shower drain?
Carla Michelle Jan 2015
Fate had met me with hands drenched in blood.
I had met you with sirens wailing in your busy head,
but no, I would not let you diminish me.
I have turned you into my poetry, left and right
I am whisking away thoughts of you on pages and laptop screens,
all of which are dying.
I met you and I had already deemed myself worthy, of saving you.
I wrote you like my poetry,
saving compilations of you in different files but I know now,
it wasn't the way.
I met you and found out that saving you, like saving the Sun
from dying out one day, was not meant for my hands.
I met you, when you uttered to me "poetry is dead"

I know you.
I had known you for my poetry.
I have known you since I had the first
taste of what it feels like,
to be awake.

Now I know, poetry is dead.
You are not my poetry anymore,
for you are the
Poet
.
Carla Michelle Mar 2016
Dear Mom, I hate you for pointing out my insecurities every day of my adolescent life. I used to love you before I noticed you couldn't love me the way I was. Dear middle/high school, I hate you for making me fight for my body like it was a war. Dear myself, I hate you for caring so much about things that shouldn't matter and for making me obsess over the every little calorie.

Dear Bulimia/Anorexia:
I used to love you, I used to be proud to show you off, I used to be careless about the way you made me feel. I used to come home and weight myself five time a day, I used to measure out my dimensions. I used to rationalize calories for different parts of the week, and on bad times, throughout the months. I used to eat 6 almonds every day for three months and taught myself that fainting is just like sleeping. I used to scratch my head and pull out locks of my hair. I loved you, like a heroine addict loves dope.

******* for making me so weak, ******* for showing me a normal life, and ******* for purging on it years later. You let me have my sweet taste and I've let it consume me. ******* for making me turn my mirrors around and for making me look at myself as if I was broken and needed a good fixing. ******* for taking my life and for taking my pride.

I can't possibly think of the many ways to say how I loved you. I can't think of all the ways I want to say how much I hate you. I used to blame myself for not abiding to your rules, I used to blame myself for that burger I ate last month, I used to blame myself for the weight I've gained.

Dear You, I have personified you to the point where I'm scared to tell you I don't want it anymore. You are not a disease, and you're so proud of it. You're a ******* part of me. A part I don't want to be anymore.
Carla Michelle Aug 2014
There is a certain fluency in the way they carry
their role play in a bedroom.
And it is not when he says
"I adore you" that makes her
tremble, it is not the type of flowers that
he throws on the bed that makes her mouth
shiver.
Though it is most certainly the exact way
his eyes turn a bit towards her shivering mouth
when he says he ******* adores her,
and it is the smell of the flowers
that he throws on the bed that makes
her tremble.
Love made into a love unheard is
when he has not to speak what she already
must know, but show what she must
need to see, touch, feel, to
say everything that must need to be said
when saying
"I love you"

**On this little bedroom floor,
in the creaks inside the bed springs,
in the spinal chord of her body
has he found the best ways
to tell her.
Carla Michelle Dec 2015
I have recently started to work on individual pieces that will later go into an entire piece (such as this one) about things in my life in which I find. Find what exactly? I'll leave that up to interpretation.

My idea here is to end the sugar coating of the realness of growing up.

To the age of Heartbreak and the Heartless, I write for you

I had a boy tell me "you're a breath of fresh air" everyday for a year. I broke his heart as I did mine. I had a boy tell me pretty things and I stepped all over it. I'm still breathing. I'm still fine. But I feel it from time to time.

Heartbreak will come for you, if it hasn't already, in any kind of form. This day and age, anything breaks your heart. Will it be okay? Probably, probably not. They'll leave you, you'll leave them, your phone will break, someone might die, you'll cry, you'll drop out, you may become an addict, and you may even lose them all together. The world has endless ways of telling you "stop crying about it" but you'll always find more reasons to do it anyways. My advice? Feel it. Feel the heartbreak coursing through your veins and take it in like the very drug it is. You may not see it yet, but you're a heart-breaker and you've got to start enjoying it. It'll hit you, and you'll be consumed (let it consume you.)

We're the heartless walking among the heartbroken. Give it out, your heart can take the beating it will surely get. We live life afraid of being hurt and yet we don't give a **** anyway. Eliminate the fear and just let it hurt you. Give your heart to people. Bottling it up will only suffocate it. There's someone/something for everyone or there might just be more than one for you, that's cool too. We're the society that has let the wrong things consume us; social standards, media, others, careers, get the **** over it. We're not here to be skeletons of the past or the famous. Be the rotting corpse you want to be, be the heartless ones who fear more of life being taken than life being ******.

Life is ******, break a heart or two, and toughen up.

Being Found
There will be a day, where you’ll wake up and realize something that’ll probably change your life. I had an honest moment not too long ago, and have had trouble putting it into words. To be completely honest, a little cliche even, I felt the fall hit me in the gut and I gave in. I gave in to the slight chill in the breeze that flew by my bare face and yes, I wished for more of it. Typically like the entire human race yearns for more and more of things until, well frankly, they just get bored. I had someone recently tell me: “ If you don’t look for it, the finding will be much more spectacular” and there came my honest moment throwing me a slightly irritating wack in the jaw. I did my finding after the found and I couldn’t quite find it. Bare with me, now with the story of how I was found without finding.

I was once a girl that wanted to be wanted, to be held, and to be the one someone held on to. I was the girl who asked instead of holding hands to hold fingers, because it made me feel something different. I was the girl who chose to stay the “findee” because I felt that was where the magic happens. I then became the girl who had no idea who she was, I became the girl who didn’t want to find anymore.

It was then a Monday, when the finding took place. I was found and the finding was not done by me, rather another “findee” in training.

I found that you can smell the seasons change and feel the weather drop. I also found that having the seasons fly away so rapidly is the reason why you’d have to sit the **** down and enjoy it. I had an honest moment when I realized that I love it when my bed is ragged and unmade at all times and when I take a swing of emotions when I’m drunk and alone. I love it because I know people don’t want to admit it’s a ****** time, this thing called “becoming an adult” or “doing you” while it seems as if people are doing them, greatly.

Sit the **** down, and have an honest moment. Take in the changing colors of the leaves and don’t wear a sweater when it’s ******* freezing out. Let go of being the tired findee, and let it find you.

And for the love of God, secure it when you’re found, as it will be spectacular and all, it could fly away.
Carla Michelle Mar 2014
1. There he was, sitting at the end of the hallway
with his apple flavored "100%" natural juice box
resting in the palm of his immature hands.
He let me use his super 57 pack of Crayola's today.

2. He ****** Lucy last week. They say he wasn't
in control of his mind. Although, he still came to
visit me at the clinic yesterday, and told me that
he had saved me some for after I've made progress.
Since then, I've gained three pounds. He said
"You're glowing, and I'm sorry."

3. Someone once told me, "The one thing
you'll love more than anything, is a man
in a suit." Maybe getting a diploma wasn't
the only thing on his schedule,
because ****, he did look
ravishing.

4**. Toes to head, I stared, at him.
As he took those nervous steps through
the isle, even if I wasn't supposed to be peeking.
I still had time to find my something blue,
though, he was so distracting,
I forgot to borrow it.
Carla Michelle Mar 2015
You've always had too much skin,
and I had not a clue
where to attack first.
You've always had too much
skin,
to choose , would be
unfathomable.
You say I've always had
an impeccable kiss,
yet naive enough to
use it away.

When push comes to shove,
when skin will turn to my biggest
loss, my biggest
obsession,
I'll travel the maps that are
derived from your flesh,
I will not allow myself to
keep you as a memory, but rather
a world,
that my lips have explored
on high.
You've always had too much skin,
and too much time on your hands.
But you are endlessly fascinating
to me.
Carla Michelle Jan 2016
I'd start by asking you, politely
if I could explore the depths of your body
like a librarian in an endless library
searching for the history book in
a row of poetry.

Your body, like a part of history,
has been taught to me,
by the only one who has ever had the
chance of exploring it,
so enchantingly, every night,
you.

Let me explore your seas.
Carla Michelle Dec 2013
There's a moment where nothing is being said
and nothing is the absolute meaning
to this absence of a pity conversation
that was better off never said.
The rules read:
1: Touch her skin.
Take the particles that make up
her oatmeal skin into your hands
and refuse to take it back.
2: Grab her face.
Bottle up all your enemies,
take her colored cheeks
to your ruthless thumbs
and simply
graze.
3: Look at her eyes.
Remember all things
that once damaged her
or the ones who have told
her too much already.
And find out the very things
she insists on keeping from
you.
4: Don't you dare ******* blink.
Don't you ******* choose to forget
the way she looked at you, the way
you did the same when she put the
auburn roses upon your cheeks.
Carla Michelle Feb 2014
I am a woman, who seeks for dependence in independence.
You are the absolute, solid synonym of independence.
I am the pages of a book that I have yet to discover.
You have already finished my memoir.
I have naive eyes that fall a bit too short.
You have bold eyes that can be made uneasy.
I fear of the world and its cynical motions.
You fear the thoughts that ponder about.
I read the words that I touch and that have touched me.
You grasp words and ****** them, in intimacy, not conspiracy.
I feel independent in the mere twist of a definition.
You feel the dependency and you cradle it.
I feel soft skins caressing my body,
and I take it as dependency inside of independence.
You are the words I touch, the letters I hold,
and the perfect line between antonym and synonym

I speak.
Carla Michelle Nov 2014
To be a friend your goal is not to follow nor to be civil.
To be a friend is to be the most genuine part of yourself.
If you were a friend, you would not have taken
my words and mold them into what you tried to remake as your story.
If you were a friend you would have let me keep the most
genuine part of myself.
If you were a friend, even a person, if that at all,
you would have let me keep the angel that was never to be yours.
My angel that was never to be inside of you.

If you were a human,
you should have fixated yourself on something
other than my promising beginning.
If you had not lost your
humanity (long ago),
you'd be so much more than you are
perceived.
Yet you are as told,
words leftover of an
envious soul.
And here you are once again,
heart left torn out
because your legs fell a bit too obtuse
.
Carla Michelle Aug 2016
I have conquered love.
I need no more the boy I once used to admire, I need no more of him.

I have accepted love.
I want no more of his touch, I want no more of his pain.

I now have a sweet, sweet boy.
I now know he is not him. I now know I can live.

A boy with eyes a hazel hurricane.
A boy with height to last for days.

A boy who wipes the tears I cry, a boy
Who I call mine.
Carla Michelle Sep 2015
The sky was a rude shade of
indigo when you whispered to me
"look at the world move"

I took the sky in harmony
and watched the universe
rotate my eyes inward,
hence when I saw you

I thought I had seen the unbelievable,
you're such a rude shade of indigo,
and you're making me dizzy.
Carla Michelle Sep 2015
The dying breed
of the careful and careless.
We are proud and so ashamed
by stories of past lives
and recent deaths.
We are the disgusting
rodents walking among
teardrop roads
and war crime rivers.
We are the beautifully ******
running, like the wild ones,
running through
sunshine genocides
and butterfly dead pools.

We are the  sane, in the insane.
Carla Michelle Jul 2015
She was only a child, the summer of '15
she had the world on a string, her heart
so enclosed in a boys hands, she could never
touch it.
She had dreams, flailing around at the seams,
when it was time to follow a new endeavor
her string seemed to tear, along the middle.

She had insecurities, tall enough to
reach out and choke her dead.
She had no idea,
her heart would have scurried at the first
sight of lust,
and forget the first
one she had.

She had insecurities, enough to crack her
porcelain skin.
She showed them off, like a new
depressing outfit, like a filthy rag.
But when she did, you told her,
"You're a *****".

She had insecurities, enough to **** you off.
Luckily, enough to **** her off too.

My insecurities aren't something
to determine my charisma by,
try again.
Carla Michelle Feb 2016
At fifteen you showed me the thrill out of life I always craved and If I wasn't such a pessimist, I would have told you I wanted to, too.
You would drive me around in your car, drifting with the winds at midnight smoke sessions.
At sixteen you stopped seeing her, and her, and her. You stared to talk about her, crying about her. You called me and you called, my god you called. I would let you drive me around, holding fingers with the smell of once faded smoke residue on your car seats.
At seventeen we went to a janky *** motel and I watched you transform into the glistening end of a lit herb. You took me to the end of a long road that was our life together, the end of a friendship. You let me drive your car while holding fingers and telling each other things. I told you what my favorite song was. You told me it could work.
At seventeen you told me I was pretty. At seventeen you took my virginity. At seventeen you announced 'i love you' on the beach at midnight.
At eighteen it was me, and you, and the world. I would drive you around in my car. I would wake up, naked, pressed against your body, clinging like it was life. At eighteen I told you I was leaving. You wanted to come. At eighteen it was me. At eighteen it was you.
At nineteen I left.
At nineteen I still don't know why I did.
At semi-twenty am I still wondering how you are and if you think of me
.

I wrote you as poetry. I am so sorry.
I should have written you as non-fiction.
years of my life I have with you, that I still cannot deal with.
Carla Michelle Jan 2015
When you catch him
gazing at your skin,
Be sure to tell him,
It's all his.
Carla Michelle Jan 2014
Strangers to the touch:
he was fast to dive into
the waves that were
indeed
his briny deep.
She, whom took
his complexion into
the trench that is her,
also took the senile
artistry that was he,
recklessly.
Strangers to the act:
he took the palm
of his over-dramatized
antagonist of his own
life and just
pressed it.
She  caressed the
thought of it,
yet still arose
to find her most
fragile protagonist
grazing his head
on the
adolescent but corrupt
land line that made up
as her thighs.

Strangers they must be,
though, strangers
whom have
found need in
the halves that have
halves in half.
Carla Michelle Dec 2013
(n)                
in·fi·del·i·ty /infiˈdelitē/*
I have a place where
I take the things that I
want to say, but mustn't
belt out loud.
You told me that
I wouldn't want the
world to hear the things
that scare me,
only because
you didn't want it
to be used
against
me.
I write down the
things that aren't
supposed to be in
my head, only
because you told me
that I shouldn't be
worrying about things
that aren't worth
it.
Since the first day
(middle of December, or
something like that)
you have been
taking care of me
even when I
told you not to
worry.
You threw around
kisses that
carried a sort of
incredible gravity.
Gave out
your signature
on papers that
also had mine.
(Oh honey, you gave me
the kind of love that
I've seen on the
television. What more
could I want?)
Although
even the most
sober entanglements
ask:
(Where are you?)
Carla Michelle Sep 2014
It is not so much of a mysterious poem, your love, no.
It is more like a way of infatuating, me.
Your love, on most cynical days and nights,
is like a ******'s first sight of snow.
Freezing temperature, a sane white rose, at the most.
Your caricature could **** a woman, you assortment
of beautiful things that the insane can only see.
When the smoke consumes your eyes,
you look so divine, my King.
And it's your love that takes me by chance,
by the time it's dawn,
chance has met my match, darling.
And you proceed, to weep,
into my ears, are whispers
that tingle so romantically,
so intimately, and you proceed
to carelessly
call me
your

Queen.
Carla Michelle Nov 2013
What’s that one thing you’d fall completely in love with over and over again?
Is it a feeling? Is it a sound? A person?
Could it be the morning light that you catch seeping into your room from the partially opened shutters right when you open your eyes and relax your weak arms from that brutal stretch? The way the room automatically becomes a shade of blue from the cloudy sky?
Maybe the way you feel when you take a perfect glance at your surroundings,
that feeling of relief.
Relief because not only are you waking up alive but,
to a room that glows with “New start” written all over it.
You’re not just slouching there like a room full of sorrow just hit you in the face. You’re thinking all things bright and beautiful are coming today.  In that moment, I don’t need your help. I don’t need your sympathy. You’re not even a use to me anymore in that moment because I’ll be by myself at the end of the day.
You’re not my possession.
Honestly, you shouldn't even be important but, you seem to always know your way around this town. All I’m saying is at that moment, nothing matters, not you or this ****** up world. But, at the same time everything matters. And you’re not on that list, just my coffee and I in this room for the rest of the day.
Carla Michelle Jul 2015
I first started writing because I wanted someone to notice me. Because I wanted to make people feel shivers down their spine when they found one of my poems engraved into a metallic bathroom stall or a wooden bench.

I then wrote because I wanted to feel something myself, in the form of someone else’s “fake” story. Because when things aren’t your problem, it tends to become less worrisome and more forgettable.

I then started to write because I wanted to show the world, who you were. Because to me, when I wrote you, peoples eyes turned and their ears widened. You were like the phenomena I never knew people wanted to hear.

That’s when my writing had died. When I had handed you out to the world, for attention and embrace, when you were not theirs to be seen. I wrote for you, and nothing else.

You then had the audacity to tell me, my writing was too “complex” and it wasn’t something you were “interested in”.

That was when I had died.

Because my poetry was dead, the muse didn’t care.
Carla Michelle Jun 2015
symphonies and orchestras
played for us,
and when the music came to an end
I found my head.
I am not apologizing.

I felt the blood, rushing through me
as I swayed through a dream of lust
and alcohol,
not once with a
worry.
I am not sorry.

I have recently found out,
that I can use the word "I"
and not be afraid of
deeming "us" dead.
I am not worried.

to the raw nerve you had
to request such out of my mouth,
I applaud it deeply.
without you, I would have
never brought myself
to say
"I don't love you anymore"
I am non-apologetic.
Carla Michelle Jan 2014
There is a line.
Although we lack the
mere knowledge of
even the whereabouts
of this line.
"When does one cross the line?"
When I reach into your bag and
take what's rightfully yours?
When he puts his hand under
your blouse without consent?
When you fear what you want
to tell someone
may come off as "demanding"

"When does one cross that line?"
I'm so done
with being
curious.
Carla Michelle Jan 2014
(Adj)*            
Obscure /əbˈskyo͝or/

I don't know where I am
I don't know who I am,
but I know that
you like to keep your left arm
swinging out of the window
or you hate when
I turn my head in the
opposite direction of your
face.
The windows and windshields
fear of kissing you
at the wrong time
and so do I.
"You've passed by this forest
just about a thousand times!"
you've always hated
the act of getting lost.
Yet I still don't know who I
am.
I have not a clue where I
am.*
But I do know
you love
drinking whiskey from
the bottle when you've
told me to take the wheel.
I know your favorite
color isn't really a color,
its a shade, and you love
staring out at it when
your head is glued to the
side of the window
on the passenger side of
this car.
I don't know where I am, or who
I must be but I do
know you and your little things.
*Here's to getting caught with you.
Carla Michelle Jun 2015
Day in and day out,
I can feel the wrath of your lingering skin
grasping me whole and
one day, your grip might just
be more than a ****** choke.
You write lines about me,
like a broken romance.
When the day comes,
where I will no longer
feel the ache of
self-inflicted wounds like
fire on my veins,
will be the day my
poetry becomes less romantic.

You write me like romantic poetry,
in the words you say too.
Because I will never stop
romanticizing the
most gut-wrenching things.

To the boy who
tore me in half with one
of the most romantic sayings of time
"Tell me you don't love me"
I will wish for the day
you will remember it,
as it shall lay in the ground with you
the day you decide
you don't love me.

The day you will ponder
about ideas fixated on me,
will be the only time
I'd let you lick the shameful
words you recited to me, like my
poetry,
off my lips like you really
need me.

To feel burns, on my skin,
along with traces of fingertips,
engraved into my fragile skin,
every time you write words
dedicated to me, so
romantically,
is such a shame.

To the boy who
made me such a romantic,
hopelessly and tragically,
*******.
Carla Michelle Nov 2014
To discover the many levels
of complete satisfaction
which most would call
"falling too early, too fast"
is just a shy breath away from
deeming it to be too slow,
and I need it faster.  
My eyes will never lurk on a path
that does not reminisce on his very
scent, yet urge to find and consume it alone.
My lips will not crave to seek attention
that does not follow with the same
softness they do know.
My body will reach out
in such lengths to find him, because he,
is my sanctuary.

To touch him is to ask me
to fall in love with him,
yet not so indirectly.
To ask me to not look into
his eyes, is to take away
every beautiful thing I've learned
from him.
And if he asks me to do those things,
I might hesitate, yes.
But remember, when something is
a bit too hesitant, it's not really
ever done.

Yet I dare him to ask me to kiss him, to touch him, to love him.
Because from that day and forward, I will never
let him stop remembering why he ever asked me to.
I will shower him with stammering kisses, like
bombs igniting over his very skin.
I will never let my hands leave his body,
scratching at his skin like its the most
beautiful rash I've ever had.
I will never forget the way he looks at me
on a daily basis, or the aggressive meets gentle way
he holds me
.

And you are my sanctuary.
And now, you are no longer a
He or him.
And that, my love,
is me loving you, because you love me*.
Carla Michelle Oct 2015
Rusty cheeks on worn out fingertips
in the middle of the world,
you were the epidemic
of fantasy this head needed.
You're the science fiction novel
in a bookcase of poetry.

Tired eyes on ruthless faces,
on a sliver of two continents,
you were the explosion
that became the
Solar System.
Carla Michelle Feb 2014
ap·peal /əˈpēl/
           (V).*          
I never thought I'd get caught in you
especially in this way.

There you were,
you laid there
I saw not your face
but the creases on your back
your skeleton took me
in harmony.
And it's if I had found
the cursive scripture
of your bones in the ripples
of your morning skin.

There I was,
wondering if I had even
made a slight movement
that I would harm the scene.
Maybe it was cotton, polyester
between us and the
**** charisma underneath
but it built such
awe in the vessels of my body
as it did*.

I didn't need to touch you
to get caught
in the monument that
is you,
Before the day had even started
Before the night had wanted to say
goodbye.
Carla Michelle Aug 2015
She's stranded and found
the lonely leaf flailing from its tree.

She's here, she's everywhere
in time, they'll see.

She laughs and often cried
thoughts of happy goodbyes
and tiresome hellos.

She's the water after the snowflake,
the tie to my rope.

All these years she'll say:
*"My poetry needs to be saved"
Carla Michelle May 2014
It was not too long
nor short after
that I woke
in the same hands that
I've known.

Oh but you wouldn't even know,
this feeling of pure
solitude and togetherness
both freely upon each other.
I have faced the fact
that I have already
memorized the ripples of your
skin, the rough form with
soft guidance, and the
bitterly irritating
nibbles on your *hands
.
And I have done so
by merely
watching myself be so
drawn to your touch
day in,
day out,
I've studied these
galaxies for which I've known
as your
hands.  

*And so I woke,
with the contagious
feeling of your hands
covering and caressing
my -
Carla Michelle Sep 2014
My only wish is to wake up
in the warm embrace that is your bare body,
covered in sheets as soft as a flowers petals.
Swimming in an endless ocean
of pretty things, you'd whisper
into ears, asleep, only to know,
I'd recite them in the morning,
like a perfectly structured poem,
that would soon enough wake you from slumber.
Because whispers are made to make us
listen.

I'm so glad I listened,
sleep well, and dream
euphorically*.
Carla Michelle Dec 2014
When the time comes,
when you find yourself, when you find
your heart, in two places
when will be the time
when you find yourself, your heart
where it belongs?

I love you both, I do,
but who's to know
who's heart
will consume mine,
before the other.

I love you both, I do, I do.
Yet I love him more,
than I do a move.

I swear, I love you both, I surely do.
So which will come to choose?
The heart I reside in,
or the great move?
Choosing between two loves is quite difficult. My heart is in two places, yet my mind knows where to go. But where do I keep the line between letting one or both go? I love him, I do, but Chicago is where my dreams will come true.
Carla Michelle Sep 2014
A universe caught in it's own diversity
like the wings of a butterfly
severed off during it's flight.
And as the Fall becomes apparent,
the leaves find changing colors a bit too
dramatic.
A melodic song, sung in the key of
freezing temperatures
but is longing its dear, blanc
sitting on the pavement.  
A restless change in winds,
like a wave colliding into the equator.
A world too predictable,
like a dandelion
loosing all of its wishes.

But your voice grows flowers,
your eyes rip me apart,
almost like a ray of sun
hitting ice, and not becoming another
element.
Your heart takes me in one,
and starts to feed.
Your body is the source of life,
like a newly-wed spring leaf.  
And I've never been more okay
.
Carla Michelle Nov 2013
Down,
down at the bottom
of that pit less
***** you call
your stomach
you all have
taken
or
thought
about the mere fact
that there's
one thing
in the soulless
trench whom we've
named Earth
which controls our
"meaningless lives."

A piece of ******* paper.
That kind of off-forest green,
torn up, and passed around
slice of priceless paper.
A tree in the form of a
rectangle shocks our eyes
with ******, vengeful
appeal every single day
of our withering lives.
Could it be the
face that we've
memorized off of
Mount Rushmore
that makes us
believe for even a second
that our taste could possibly
be a bit more
lavish.

**A piece of ******* paper.
Carla Michelle Dec 2013
When I* look at him,
my feeble mind can't
help itself
but think, over and over again:
****.
When I breathe next to him,
it's as if I were breathing
in a galaxy where every
star or whirlpool
was the synonym of
****.
When I touch him,
my fingers wind themselves
up into each indent,
each bone,
each freckle
which makes up a balance
of things
that I can only
determine as:
**Oh my god.
x=y
Carla Michelle Oct 2016
x=y
You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers, that stick to my skin like the wet morning air.
You are apologies left unread hidden in the mailboxes of the people I love during the humid summers of Florida.
You are a pocket knife.
You are a lighter with little gas left.
You are essential to live, if not, it would mean a life without tears rolling down my dry skin when I’m eating York Peppermint patties at 2 am thinking of you.
You are a shotgun.
You are the light of a dimly lit candle that burns me when I go to turn the flame off with my fingers in the middle of a monsoon.
You are a noose.
You are a hammer with no nail on a rainy Sunday evening.
You are a shotgun that shoots me with flowers.
Next page