loving him is poetry
and kissing him is art.

i'm used to being the creator
but being created from the affection
in his hands
and sculpted from intimacy
is a feeling like no other--
he doesn't just look, he sees me
every stray brush stroke
every drawn line
every brilliant color,
down to my skeleton,
he strips me of pretense and glows
with acceptance.

i am a bared soul,
battered and bruised,
shaken and scarred,
but even so--

i'm something beautiful in a gaze
like that.

The night you told me I didn’t put stars in your eyes anymore was the night
I didn’t see any stars myself. I thought we were written in constellations but that was more hopes
of my own then fate. Yes, I was upset. But I wasn’t in love. And that’s why it didn’t hurt.
I never lied when I said there was a moment when I thought we were some type of forever.
Do you remember the time when you were out by the lake of New Hampshire with the most gorgeous sunrise,
and you told me all you could think about was how much better it’d be if I was there to see it too?
I told you it didn’t matter but when I woke up the next morning, I felt detached from where I was.
There’s a part of me that wishes I saw that sunrise too.
But that’s just how it is.
All I have is stories of “has been”s and “could’ve been”s. A collection of “almost” and never seen sunrises—
the memories carefully stacked on top of each other, organized and filed away, collecting dust.
Somewhere I still think we exist though, an eternal splotch of sunshine and mutual caring, some place where our love didn’t hurt.
Somewhere there’s a lace wedding veil and a matching tux that were actually worn. Somewhere there’s the unfinished scrapbook I put together that has more pages added to it. Somewhere there’s a collection of passports from all the road trips we should’ve taken.
Somewhere out there, we are the type of forever I intended us to be.
Somewhere, in a little cabin in New Hampshire, surrounded by evergreens and daffodils,
there’s a little girl with the same name as my favorite movie character
with your hazel eyes and my dark hair.

I fall in love
with bits of people,
rarely a whole person.
Like crooked smiles on subway stations
or untied shoelaces
or favorite books
or eyes that look like blinking galaxies--
I see the puzzle laid at my feet,
your collarbones, your self-hatred, your bitten down fingernails, your detachment, the wars of your mind, the curve of your spine, the way you scrawl your name with indifference--
All these broken fragments that
shatter and surround me
like the wine glass I dropped,
Shards of glass,
your eyes
reflect me
the deep blood red wine
Drops like crystalline desire--
I might romanticize your flaws
and I might make walls of disillusionment,
but I swear I'll love you like you're whole.

abandoned at the alter--
or just abandoned.
I have nothing to hold on to
except the tatters
of this deceased
laced satin, this crumpled
veil, covering hope and covering light.
one shoe, its matching partner had scuffs to
begin with--what a fraud.
white is supposed to be the color of new beginnings
and black is for funerals--
but I guess white is the new black,
I'm left to fend by myself, nothing
to celebrate--
the cake was too pretty to be eaten
anyway.

and don't you know it,
we're all in our wedding dresses,
looking abstractly at broken watches,
dust-filled corners,
waiting for the groom
that will never
come.

A body like running pavement
and filled with
skidmarks --
broken pictures of sunset sky between trees
power lines--
they fall and rise like waves,
quickly flashing.

A mind like an endless set of highways
there's no map to tell
where anything could end up--
ideas that are
headlights, move with uncontrolled velocity,
bobbing in the darkness, wheels
humming from the engine, throaty engine--
voice that's a radio, projects songs
and thoughts
to the passengers--

it's not a roller coaster, we don't choose to be behind a wheel
but we're all in our vehicles
with horns
and shouting matches and road rage,
swearing, arguing our luck,
gambling the speed limit
to try to get to all our destinations
"on time"
but God only wants you to feel the wind rushing
through your rolled-down windows,
or contemplate on silent journeys, a
seemingly never ending stretch of road,
breathe through the starry summer nights,
sunlight flickering on rooftops,
dirt paths in forests,
trees, lights,
pedestrians,
a hitch hiker,
clouds,
parks,
mountains,
cities,
stoplights,
billboards,
­but all you see is the
pictures fading into a blur--
blurring,
all
blurring,
and sudden--*

                          collision.

I don't have the time to criticize you,
I'm too busy improving myself.

she's afraid of reoccurring nightmares
afraid of choosing a single instrument to play, she can't stay with one
beautiful sound-producing musical wonderwall,
of committing herself to one,
and I was wondering if she was really talking about instruments
or talking about people,
talking about me--
am I a violin or a piano?
it doesn't matter because she says she wouldn't stay with any of them
anyway.
she's afraid of going downstairs to brush her teeth at night in the dark
and instead of picking up a tooth brush
she's afraid of picking up a razor in its place,
and god i tell her
all about my nightmares
how I run and outrun myself
or try to,
I reveal that I fear and love being
alive, I expose myself and my personal
horrors,
and I tell her, tell her it all, and for the first time
she looks at me with eyes that aren't empty,
eyes that are sorrowful as they are
compassionate and she tells me
"it's okay".

Mark me
like a permanent marker stain on my collarbones,
a smear of bruised flesh, painted with possessive fury.
I'll mark you with my nails,
crescents like waning moons on your back--
but we aren't waning,
we're waxing,
glowing,
night lovin'
creatures.

we're wild creatures
loving, yearning, touching, seeking.

she's all sunlight today,
running, learning, humming, being.

i'm at the mercy of those eyes-- i've realized
she is not the edge of oblivion, but rather hiding in a state of it sometimes.
her detachment to this plane might run rampant but she can't deny this.
she can't deny us. there's sparks when we meet, our auras collide, unseen to human eye.

what a lovely thing, this creature of beauty. we're glimmering, glowing and the golden light reflects from her hair and on to me. she's no angel but i swear it's a halo surrounding us.

i press my cheek to hers. i match gazes, fingers entwined. she grins, and god, i've never seen something more entrancing. all i can do is hold on for dear life.

she holds out her hand and with a simple command, "spin for me,"
and i do. i spin and spin and she smiles with satisfaction. i'm hers, i'm her dancer, even if only for a moment.

one more brief touch, she leaves a sweet chamomile scent and spring air in her wake.

my heart is so full.
this is love, this is love, this is love.

the mind is a vessel swimming in ideas, until the break into reality--waves are receding from the shoreline of thought,
crashing crescendos of melodies
that ached to be heard
And
words that longed to be written
And
memories that once resurfaced--

All gone.

Dreaming is a poet's land and
I ache for eye sight and control and the free flight of my subconscious.

my sexuality is nothing
to be ashamed of.

• it was always you-- until relatively recently
• you're not the epitome of romance so you say, but why did you hold me like you want to romance me
• i was sorry if it seemed like i moved on the first few months -- i was never good at being open
• i could've let you help me
• did you like being undefined or did you want something more concrete because i felt as though i was the one with a happy broken heart and you found something perfect for you
•i miss you, always missed you and will miss you if you leave again

No, I don't love her in the conventional sense.

I love her as an artist.

I love her with the profound human greatness of hope and all the beautiful qualities of humanity I find redeemed within the motions of her lips when she sings. I love her by the ocean, by city streets, drunk under stars, with no context. Just as every place is contaminated with memory, every place is filled with possibilities of her presence. I love her with the experience of an old soul and with the passion of youth. There is no reason behind it, yet it is full of purpose. I love her mouth, not because I want to kiss it, but because it is a mouth that embodies all the things that speak violently. She is a piece of the universe with irrevocable flaws that I came to understand and unspeakable beauty that I came to admire. I love her in my sketch book, I love the flicker of emotion in eyes, I love her on painted window panes and in the darkness of night.

I love her for the sake of loving her. I don't love with expectation of my affection to be returned. And from the realization of loving her, I have come to this conclusion;

I love her purely, unconditionally, and truthfully.

all i ever do is ache. there are places where the color in my cheek blotches and it is in those spots that resides a quiet desperate yearning for the touch of your lips--

tears leave just as many wayward streaks as dripping paint on canvas, only i'm not art.

how can I miss the hands that I never even got to hold?
i'm pretty sure palm readers know more intimacies than any soul on earth. i have yet to discern a single line of yours. or our lines. where do we begin? lines are infinite but existence is but a piece. does that make our love a line fragment? or are we more substantial than that?

how do i miss old places that i've never been to? i can't remember if color value was the same as valuing us. One can only make shapes when there is light and shadow but i'm not sure how to shade us from impending erasure on this page. how can i reminisce about the touch of your skin when all I got was a brief glance off your arm? i swear it made a mark on me but i never once could find it. my bruises still linger though. darling, is it possible to love without letting go?

these are the things that consume me.

lips that were shaped by cupids
saints could worship
and god did I worship
them--
from afar.
What can I do when
bible verses sound like
poetry on her tongue?
What else can I do when
her hips are my steeple
and I can't sully them
with sin?
The lines on her hands are
my koran
and I was so scared to ruin them with
my ***** palms that she was gone
before I could prostrate myself
before her,
in devotion.

tangled in my bed, you’re holding the bits of my smile that i didn’t even know fell out.
there, in the the gravities of messy sheets and intimate eye contact,
we come upon the part of the story when it reaches a climatic point of dizzying anticipation,
the type of expectation
that whispers sweetly on my skin as if it had the plot of our collision written on it.
here is the precipice of something scary; my tentative hands outstretched—
a coincidental incident; your hands reaching back,
folding me into your body.
everything is the same: the sun still came up to light our faces and
this little town hasn’t changed.
but everything is different, oh god.
the day i sat down in a mostly empty hallway
was the day that i realized i am the worst of unintentional catalysts.
the blush of borrowed luck stains my knuckles and i clench my fists in hopes that it will stay
before i let a safe house like you shelter a storm like me.
i’m so afraid of breaking you.
i’m afraid of my own vulnerabilities.
i’m afraid of letting people into the places where there’s still some wholeness to me. i know—i’m a walking contradiction.
touch and go,
stay and leave,
everything seems to fold.
what is that saying.
“the best laid plans of mice and men, often go awry”?
  never had a plan when it came to things like us but please understand
there are certain fragilities i can’t fathom in me and that i’m afraid of my destruction as i am of my own creations.

      but for now, this is the first chapter in our book.
this is the first day I wake up.
this is where we start.

oblivion is a place that i've always wanted to know,
since it sounded like peace to someone like me who's never
quite convinced it to stay long enough to have anything more
than a slight impression on my pillow and
perfume stained sheets.
even so, i'm still sorry for existing
as an unfortunate vortex of bad ideas, apologies,
and impulsive behavior--
i liken myself to fragmented floorboards or
drifting rooftops, a tornado of good intent,
but you can't  build something steady when your vision is red
and your state of mind is blurry--
god, i'm trying not to let myself be
the cause of civilian casualty.
painted pieces of "could've beens" and "what if's" separated only by the winds caused by a torrent of ****** punching fists--
there are holes in the wall that are shaped just as much by
my ex lovers as they are by my own hands.
i'm sorry i'm not more stable since i never quite
mastered the art of construction,
i'm sorry i am less four walls and more
collapsed doorway,
i'm sorry i was a synonym for broken
and she was more of a safe place than i could ever be.
that's all i ever wanted to be for you, you know,
a safe place
even when my eyes spell out danger
and i try not to embody the word "home-wrecker"
as much, even when
cracks form around my skull
every time i realize that you never were the type
to buy a house in tornado country--
i never considered myself deserving of the word "home"
but for once, i wish i was.

we're


3-dimensional and consider this form




of existence



more important



yet




lines of words



are




two-dimensional



and



they



immortalize us.

it won't be too hard
to find another
you,
but I could do better--
i just need an upgrade,
a phone that will take pictures
of my new lover,
a popped button off his collar, easily fixed
and the temporary kindness
i could find in a more genuine soul.

so yes, you're replaceable.

Don't send me pictures of tattoos you want unless you have the intention of letting me watch the ink dry, the intention of permanence.

Don't love me with a half-hearted candle when clearly we could be a forest fire.

Don't smile like that at me unless you plan to catch me when I swoon.

"I'm broken in places people don't even have names for. I'm sad. I'm nothing to romanticize. God, I'm falling apart, I'm in pieces, why can't you see?"

"You're beautiful, even when you're in pieces."

oh *******,
i'm not under the control of fate,
remember?
the government controls us.

The thing is
falling seems to imply
something accidental,
something unexpected--
I didn't fall in love,
I ran head first, with the
intention that this would hurt less
than a brick wall.

It hurt a little more than that.

It wasn't the way she walked or the way she spoke.

It wasn't even the way she was so distant, mysterious, perplexing, an everlasting enigma. It wasn't the way she could never quite articulate the distance from her body or the distance from everyone else.

It wasn't the way she didn't want to be kissed and only wanted *** because it was rough and made her feel something. It wasn't the way she loved ****** art, the way it looked at a ****** scene.

It wasn't the way she could smile. Intense. Everything she did was all or nothing, everything was the intensity of one extreme or the other. The only conception of "in-between " she had, was love.

It was the way she walked away, leaving behind a massacre of broken hearts.

*(you never had me at "hello", but god, what an impression of "goodbye")

(i miss you so much, i wonder where you are.)

i miss you the way someone misses a step on the stairway, a sharp jolt of realization, followed by a falling and crash.
i miss you the way birds miss winter, when they migrate to a perpetual spring.
i miss you like hot fudge sundaes in summer, sugar and sweet and all gone.

(i miss you so much, i wonder if you're happy)

i miss you like a favorite library book that has to be returned.
i miss you like a forgotten holiday.
i miss you like a lost love letter that never got sent.

(i miss you so much, i wonder what you're doing)

i miss the way your strong callused hands would wrap around mine, giving me strength. i miss your forest eyes. i miss the smell of aftershave clinging to my clothes. I miss the smell of us clinging to my sheets. i miss the way i once  kissed you gently, but you grabbed my face, hey, and made me kiss you more thoroughly, that's more like it, with a smug look on your face. i miss the feeling of your hands on my waist while you held me as if i was a tiny doll to your large frame. i miss the intimacy of our faces pressed close together and you tasting my smile as you touched my lips to yours. i miss your **** smirk. i miss your tattoos and tracing the indent of your spine as you let me explore you closer. i miss taking pictures with my old ipod and you'd kiss me with your eyes open and i would open mine and all the sensations that came with being around you.

and all of this is a stupid run on sentence and i am a stupid pining fool and you're somewhere, but i've been nowhere
ever since i started
missing
you.

he's the saddest story i ever read,
a walking tragedy written with spilled blood of innocence
on pages of stolen youth.

he holds forgotten chapters of words
that he never got to speak, a novel that holds his painful secrets like a requiem.
he knows death intimately as his first love
and has bruised knuckles and empty hands to show for hardships.

but still, he smiles.
even when the aroma of
perfume lingers and
the ring she never got to wear still shines.

"In commemoration of this great inspiration... 50% off of entire shop! Hurry before store closes!"

sigh

*because a consumer market and materialism are surely the best way to
remember and celebrate a man who strove for the best in humanity.

sheep at night, (1 a.m.)
(but i always thought that sheep were not the best farm animal to represent insomnia.). eventually sheep turns to old memories, choke down like hard candies. hurts to swallow. or maybe that's just the tears.

(2 a.m.)or bottles of beer on a wall, except i'm
numbering the ones on your floor, shattered. drinking never made you better but it never stopped you from opening another. and another.

(3 a.m.) numbers of leaves on clovers. i picked so many and i found one four-leaf one. i lost it and never found another. is it possible to lose luck as it is to gain it? if that's the case, it explains where you went.

i counted. i have.

i count but i've lost track.

i might come off of being anonymous on this site.... with that being said however, i will probably unlink my tumblr on that bio because that's for my own private pleasure, my blog is more secret i suppose. as well as the private and anonymous twitter i have.

in any case, i guess i'll link my youtube where i release spoken word poetry videos and such if you're that curious (i'm not looking for views, i think i'm looking for a sense of openness and less secrecy here, alot of reasons really. but go ahead and check it out if you wanna, if not, that's fine too) and i'll delete some of the darker stuff off of here and make it more PG-13, in the event that i link my youtube back to this site.

also, if this happens, i am going to change my username again to match my other pages so it all links together (sorry i know every time somebody does this, or last time i did this -- i was previously known as "brooklyn baby" -- it's just very confusing)...

i am working on self publishing a book of poetic stuff also and have been busy putting together my Society 6 shop which has other art, but i'm thinking i'll scan some handwritten poems too.

so yes, i realize this is not a poem and it's crap posting, and nobody wants to read an announcement on a website specifically built for poetry, but i guess i needed to make clarifications for those of you that follow along or care about this strange little mind of mine.

sincerely yours,
a girl of little habits **

----
update: i have since updated.. link in bio is my latest spoken word poetry video.

all she wants to do
is make beautiful things,
but she doesn't even know what beauty is.

this looks nice, so simple, minimalism.
but is it a masterpiece?

question everything. the head is full.

what is art?
what is purpose?
what is pleasing?
what is ugly?
what is permanence?
what is thieving?

and of course there is the, "why?"

it continues.
it continues.

she thinks.
there is no answer.
simply a carousel of questions.

I should feel the sharp sting of Betrayal,
as easy as it may--
I have forgotten many Memories,
and forgotten which ones have Stayed--

You gave your so called love to Another,
You gave "our song" as "hers"--
As I was once a beautiful Angel,
am now the devil that you curse--

and How carefully do we tread upon,
the cracks within our faults--
are only the things we let up on,
pretending to exalt--

So it seems only right that I would write,
a Vindictive note Of You--
But darling, I haven't an ill-intent
and the past, I cannot rue.