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Beanie Sep 18
everyday that i wake,
i step out of bed,
and see the same thing.

every day,
i am a woman,
and everyday,
i am punk.

i am punk
not because i look it,
but because my existence
defies the world at large.

i was born with holes
in my brain,
and a dead twin,
with a doctor saying,
“she won’t live long”.

i grew up being told to
cover up.
i grew up being told to
listen and obey.

but being a woman means
i refuse to listen to
anyone but me.

no laws can govern
my body
or my thoughts.

i see a woman everyday
and i know
she is punk.
Beanie Sep 17
there are some nights
that seem to stretch for years,
eons of time spent awake
and laying listless.

a church bell rings,
four times,
and the stars shine
mercilessly overhead.

small things chirp,
and the smell of dew reaches me,
but rest refuses to come,
and i am left sleepless once more.
Beanie May 14
there are dozens of them,
thin, white lines
running
up, down, and sideways
across my legs.

they cross my thighs,
stretch to my hips.
they form bumps,
and small valleys.

scar tissue is not pretty,
no matter what you call it.

i would like to
see my childhood self again,
careless and free.

i want
my childhood
back.
Beanie Sep 2019
i silently look at his face, still against the blanket. he has fallen asleep, curled up against me. he looks much more peaceful like this, and the sound of the lake amplifies this serenity.

the stars are bright, and i have been tracing mars’s path across the sky, immersing myself in the constellations. i am avoiding my true feelings, buried deep beneath denial, despite all previous interactions. even the current state of affairs, cuddled against each other under the stars, legs entwined and fingers in hair, can’t force me to acknowledge the ever-growing warmth in my chest when i look at him.

there are many problems with the ache settled into my chest, the least of which being the ocean that separates our homes. he is a $1,000 trip away from me after this summer, something i cannot do. he is the type of boy my father would dislike, and the type of boy my mother would be wary of.

yet he has fallen asleep holding me after pressing kisses to my neck and hands. he has caressed my thighs and hips, traced the lines of my collar bones, and now he is pressed against me, one hand entangled in my hair, the other laced through my fingers.

the mood tonight is different. in the past, it has been about ***, about proving dominance over each other. but now. now it is vulnerable, soft and trusting. he isn’t pulling my hair to bite my throat and neck, but rather combing his fingers through my hair, and pressing gentle kisses to the nape of my neck, where it greets my spine.

this shift, this sudden flux in the existence and nature of our relationship, is what buries the hatchet into my aching heart. it can no longer be just flirting, just *** to me. we have shown each other our vulnerabilities, and there is no going back. i am in love, but i cannot speak for him. only hope.
its been a long time, friends. enjoy.
Beanie May 2019
i am
cold toes and ripped jeans,
scalding tea and fake smiles,
too dangerous to love.

i am
worse than you think,
faded scars on hips and wrists,
ragged combat boots held together by duct tape.

i am
coffee breath in the morning,
chattering teeth in the afternoon,
a headache in the evening.

i am
in love with being in love,
too afraid to live properly,
draped in the color black.

i am
more than I can handle,
shining brighter than I thought,
waiting for the world to end.

i am
twisted, broken, and desperate,
shattered glass on a tile floor,
blood stains on old sheets.

i am
an art form gone awry,
burnt and discarded matches,
broken hearted and hopeful.


i am
glassy and bloodshot eyes,
shaking hands,
***** coffee mugs sitting in the sink.

i am
a skipping CD,
a restless night’s sleep,
shadows under eyes that look more like bruises.

i am
wholly and entirely me,
wrapped in flannel and denim and crystals,
something no one else can replicate.
i'm just myself
Beanie Mar 2019
i want to write about him.
to capture his essence between pages,
like a flower plucked and left to dry.

the way his pink lips bowed,
the soft curve of his neck,
the muscled ***** of his shoulders,
the valley of his lower back.

i want to preserve his image,
his brown hair,
smooth, tan skin,
and shining eyes.

i want to press the feather-light caresses,
hold them between the paper pages
of some long forgotten book.
i want to remember every second,
every tiny instant,
of our love.
i wrote this ages ago after a breakup. i certainly don't look back like this any more, it's been years.
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