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nadine shane Jun 6
every night, i lie awake in my bed
it always seems like
its too BIG,          too wide      ,        and too empty for me


but it
still
collapses

under the weight of the words
etched in my throat

once more,
the moon glimmers a tad too bright
as it beckons me
to come closer to the edge
to hear its soft lulls and gentle breeze

like a guilty devotee,
i say my woes to the careworn moon.

goodnight, i say, goodnight.

will you carry these wretched pleas
over to the sun?
your goodmornings are my goodnights.
nadine shane Oct 2023
it genuinely boggles my mind
when i try to fathom
how it is actually possible
to contain an immense amount
of warmth and love for someone

loving someone
to the extent that it transcends physicality?
to the extent that it encompasses
more than just the body and the soul?

i could go on and on,
ramble endlessly,
and write about how the act of selflessly giving yourself
to another person is seemingly something akin to breathing --
natural, unsought, easy, and innate

but i fear it would still not be able
to fully encapsulate the depth and ferocity
of this closely-knit emotion
that this frail body of mine holds.

(i could certainly try
but it would take a millennium)
for pius

mitski's new album made me think about a lot of things :) i missed writing a lot.
nadine shane Jun 2023
i love like a mangled dog,
rummaging through the grimiest corners
for some sort of semblance
of tranquility disguised as chaos

fangs constantly bared
but ceaselessly yearning
to be a subject of someone’s affection

tell me,
how do i stop loving like this?
contorted. star-eyed. gullible.

tell me,
how do i stop being loved
with anything but love?

until then,
i’ll still wait for you by the porch
tied on a leash too close to my pulse.

i’ll keep on waiting.
(when) are you coming back?
are you coming back?
nadine shane Feb 2023
i carry my mother’s rage
in every part of me;

i am never without it

i carry my mother’s rage
just like her mother did,
and just like her mother also did


if destruction is a form of creation,
then my mother
was never an inventor.
nadine shane Sep 2022
more often than not,

i find myself
scrutinizing the person
i see in the mirror;

whispering
and desperately reassuring

that i am not
my mother
nor
my father.
i am not a reflection of their mistakes or their what-ifs
nadine shane Aug 2022
the dirt
continues to grow and fester
beneath my fingernails.

but i don't stop groveling
down to my knees,
i don't stop to breathe;
to rest.

you, who bears god's love;
whose love i could not know.

you and your sin-stained palms
continue to enshrine
dilapidated ghost towns.

i undo the stitches on my wounds
and pick at the grisly scabs
under your scrutiny,

yet you chastise me
for the pool of blood
bespeckled on your feet.

the darkness
already dropped,
the night hides me once more.

the living sorrow,
simmered, bitter, and fresh;
everything remains.
nothing can be seen from the rafters.
nadine shane Jul 2022
the paper in front of me remains unsoiled,
no traces of muddled thoughts,
blunt conviction,
or even a speck of wariness.

the solace that i had found
in creating my own gospels
was nowhere to be found.

words no longer gushed
from the corners of my mouth,
nor did it try to burrow into nothingness.

no matter how many times
i twist and untwist these jumbled letters together,
i am woefully greeted with none other than
static and white noise.
perhaps this will serve as my memento mori
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