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 Nov 2015 Delilah
Kj
dating a writer
 Nov 2015 Delilah
Kj
dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.
 Nov 2015 Delilah
Alexandrina
Don't think about the girls
you saw on the street today
and how much more beautiful
they increasingly seemed to be
compared to you.
You are not an item comparable to another
you have not been fashioned as a commodity
you are nature, and nature does not produce perfect organisms
though they may seem to be.

Don't think about the boys
who do not look at you and
do not talk to you. So, no one
has shown interest in you for a while.
This is good news, you do not need a single soul
to feel whole. Twenty years and counting
not one of them have made you feel anything.
You can last a little while longer,
soon you may experience love.

Don't think about how messy
you feel and are. One day you will
learn to pick up all the pieces off the floor
and clarity will rush in again.
Till then leave your clothes on the bed,
but don't fret over school and your future.
Remember to live and be free
after all you are an animal

Don't think about how ****** the world seems.
Do not let negativity fill you and ******* you
into middle age, becoming bitter.
You will hate what you become.
This is not who you were meant to be.
You are a radiant being, let yourself be
filled with light and positivity.
© Alexandrina
 Nov 2015 Delilah
Camden
Sometimes when we're alone, she touches me,
But not just touches me,
She grips me
But not just grips me,
It's something more,
Like she's trying to hold on to the very last thing that means anything to her.
A grasp so tight that I can't break free,
Her fingers trap the flesh beneath.
She squeezes as if she's going through the worst pain known to mankind,
And I know that deep down, she is.
She holds on as if letting go would mean she'd fall off the face of the earth all together
And I know that deep down, she wishes she could.
She grits her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut,
Tears peek out of the corners.
I know what she's thinking about.
She's thinking about that night, three years ago.
She's thinking about the stale smell of cheap alcohol on his breath,
She's thinking about the paralyzing fear that pulsed through her body as she tried to resist,
She's thinking about how she doesn't understand why for some people,
The word "no" just doesn't cut it
She's thinking about how if maybe she hadn't had that last drink,
Or worn that tight dress,
Then maybe it would be different.
She's thinking about, "why me"
She's thinking about, "when will the pain stop"
She's thinking about how she wishes that she could just stop thinking.
But instead, she touches me.
But not just touches me,
She grips me.
 Nov 2015 Delilah
Scar
We all imagine Sylvia in a different way
Burning her captor's notes and coats and handwritten books in the backyard
Or
Beneath the house where she was revived by dirt and coal and a lesser god's spite
Or
Nine years old at a funeral band jam for the not so **** father man

Not love, but pitchers of honey
Not ***, but The Death of the Clock
Not marriage, but midnight's blood
Not children, but oven obsessions - adulterous predecessors
 Nov 2015 Delilah
Scar
This is the funeral dress that was stapled into my shoulders
And crucified
On the huge hill cross, where clowns once emerged from cotton smog -
Where bricks smashed foreheads, and we fingerpainted the sidewalk with each other's unruly blood
Where the Summer sleeps off a failed suicide attempt
Two years ago you put a hole in my head
But this is not the hole in my head (present and aching)
This is the black funeral dress I stapled into my own shoulders
The one that was worn too many days too soon
We are all infinitely bound between her death and a single desire for a boy with destructive ghosts living beneath his fingernails

I keep telling strangers about the way your jaw shakes after midnight
I keep telling strangers about the night I scattered glass shards in between my box spring mattress and the trundle bed
I keep telling strangers about your porcelain knuckles - the way you kiss each one individually before punching me in the throat
There's a rage inside my head
Disease spreads like forrest fire and floral secrets
Dead girls dance in October, rest in November
Goodnight
 Nov 2015 Delilah
blankpoems
full circle
I'm laying here with the window open listening to the rain for secrets or something or waiting for you to tell me what you haven't been telling me
like maybe there really is a girl out there with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair and her eyes are the kind of blue that is never mistaken for grey
she touches your chin before she kisses you, real softly or maybe she traces the spot above your lip where we all know angels rested their fingers before we were sent down here to rot or thrive
maybe you talk about gardens with her, how you'd never ever own an orchid cause that ***** ex of yours demanded one every hospital visit
how flowers aren't for boys but you'll pretend to watch football while you're really watching her bend down to touch the dirt like she used to smooth her baby brothers hair out of his little eyes
before their parents decided that it was more convenient to buy them a little apartment and keep money in the safe while they spent their pensions in Florida watching alligators and Dolphins and toucan ******* Sam but never at the same time
you see, I don't drink earl grey cause it tastes like fruit loops
and I don't eat fruit loops cause it tastes like the childhood I erased from my memory by forcing myself to dissociate
maybe this, is something else altogether
maybe this... is not true, another delusion, maybe your hands are busy counting change out for cardboard signs
maybe your feet move a little bit faster, not because you're in a rush to see someone who isn't me but because you're so scared of ending up back where you started
 Nov 2015 Delilah
M
I have never much liked science
and I never knew why, until now.
Because I have always known the grass is green
and I am constantly refreshed by the knowledge of
the fact of something new.
Knowing a formula, a law that tells me
the grass will be green every day
tells me to forget that the grass is special.
How can something be special if it is green every day?
How can anything be special if it is always the same?
A law gives me an explanation of how it will always be
and, personally, knowing something will always be
destroys my sense of wonder that it is here today
why do I care about the magnitude of a single repeating pattern?
if it repeats, it repeats. No matter for how long.
So, if the law says forever, it's no more special because
it is forever. In fact, it is less special.
I've never cared much for science because these laws
tell me, "it's not a miracle. In fact, it's always this way. Here's why."
And something, something deep within me, says,
"That's it?"
and science responds, in its dry voice, and tells me,
"That's it."
And I am convinced, still, in my heart of hearts, that
that can't be it. There must be more. Because I know
the grass is special. I know the world is good and unique
and different every day and deeply personal.
I don't care for laws because I know there are miracles around me
and a law tries to explain everything- and sure, it does.
Everything except the fact that this world is special.
I would rather be grateful the grass is green today than look at it
and say, "Well, I know it's green and will always be,"
and move on to the next fact to memorize,
in an empty pursuit of knowing all the laws. These laws
don't fulfill us because they don't lend us any sense of wonder.
They tell us the world is not special. That it's explainable.
I would rather appreciate it that it exists today and for what it is
rather than follow a pattern for all eternity.
Because I know that it's not just "That's it."
It must be more. It's got to be more.
a child of seven wants to hear a fairy tale that a man opened a door and there was a dragon. A child of two is already amused that a man opened a door. Every variation on what we already know is an attempt to satisfy and remember that feeling the first time we found out the grass is green. Laws tell us that we will never feel like that again. The grass will always be green. Sure, the discovery of that law feels brilliant and like a new discovery and a gain of knowledge but after that we will never marvel again at the grass being green. Knowing, instead, that something actively chooses to keep repeating itself and that it is life that does it again day by day through CHOICE is the true miracle. It is not bound to be green. However, we are thankful it is green because it might have been red or it might not have been there. "Law" destroys that gratitude. In fact, a law that must be followed and cannot be broken in fact robs us of both the obedience of following it and the fun in breaking it. A law that cannot be broken is no law at all. All the fun, in fact, of learning these new 'laws', is counteracted by the fact that you will never have the fun of discovering the grass is green again. The pattern will always repeat, no matter how many patterns you know. And knowing more and more patterns still will not free you. In fact, it binds you. Just some things to think about.

Read "Orthodoxy" by GK Chesterton. It's literally incredible.
 Oct 2015 Delilah
blankpoems
my throat is a forest fire,
a burning map that never leads to
'the depths of virginia'

your hands are made of water,
icy cold and haunting and
I don't know what else to say except
"please"

I sometimes think that we should have a history book
rewritten with our names, because I'll be ******* if
we are not rewarded for the way we forget about our past

I WONDER IF WHAT WE TALK ABOUT AFTER MIDNIGHT
HAS ANY IMPACT ON THE WAY YOUR HEART BEATS AND IF
IT DOES IS IT WATERED DOWN BECAUSE OF BEFORE
AND I WANT TO KNOW IF MY WORDS HAVE THE SAME
EFFECT ON YOU AS YOURS ON ME AND I WANT TO SWIM
in the James River and forget how to sway my limbs around to float

this is not a love poem
this is not an "I miss you, come back" poem
this is a confession
this is a love letter
written on the palms of my hands because I know
you'll never get over how badly they shake

maybe I'm confused or lovesick or homesick
for a home that can only be found inside of warm chests
but I needed to write this for someone, for myself

maybe my questions don't need answers,
maybe they just need to be heard.
 Oct 2015 Delilah
smallblank
birds are chirping. this is familiar. you can do familiar. "it's a mess" I say. quickly you reply "it's not a mess, it's pieces of your life." my life's pieces; not mine. It's taken shape as hundreds of tiny copies from the same **** story. you're fragile. you're the yellow copy of a receipt. stupid little paper girl.

this is going to be terrible and that's going to have to be okay because death is open to interpretation now.

there is something to be said about lying under every window sill in the house just to follow the sunlight and pretend it hasn't been dark since you left.

you look back in five years and realize that "you" in every poem has become yourself. everybody grew up and moved out of the sadness except for you.

dress up as yourself when you loved someone and stare in the mirror until it cracks. you never thought you'd be leaving the lights on waiting for yourself to come home. you'll never understand and that's the whole point.

always leaving never really arriving. you can stay only long enough for them to know who you are. nothing can remain the same because that's not real, is it? they say nothing lasts forever. let's be nothing. stop existing. we'll be timeless.
 Oct 2015 Delilah
smallblank
Loving you in the form of forced "I love you"'s between every touch, between every doubt inside that screams "no" while you keep screaming "yes" but all I wanted was for you to touch my heart the same way you touched my thighs and grabbed my face unapologetically
Loving you in the form of bare feet on wet pavement similar to the way you carefully walked your way into my mind. I wish every natural disaster would sound like our hurricanes of false "I love you"'s and forced moans

Losing you in the form of blankets on that cold November morning when our hearts were no longer fabricated to beat the same. I never quite forgot the way the frost matched the color of your eyes the day you decided loving me was as worthless as hiding from the monsters that lived in your head. Losing you in a form quite similar to the closest way we made love; you'd lie with I love you after minutes of me hoping you'd stop. The cadence of your voice became stale and I think I could see winter in your eyes even when I was not looking at you and my sighs became more frostbitten than your words.

Missing you in the form of sweaty palms but you never really were one for holding hands and now your fingers are shaking harder than they did during our first kiss but it wasn't our first kiss I missed, it was every one after that and the way you'd whisper I love you as if one time you truly meant it, just to watch me walk away when I thought I'd had enough. Missing you in the form of wearing your deodorant every night after years of you being gone because I will never feel safe without your memory. I was clinging to your memory in hopes that these nightmares aren't my reality but you never woke me up and I'm still waiting to be held by your words.

Forgetting you in the form of burnt love letters smothering out your voice in my head but still stinging deeper than any cut you placed on my heart. I still remember the rush of blood to my face the first time we touched, but now I wonder if the heat was a spark in interest or a warning sign. Forgetting you in the form of sleeping the time away, just to see your silhouette in my dreams. I don't trust my own two hands, how can I ever grasp yours again? Forgetting you was slam poetry except its not beautiful at all and the only thing being slammed is the doors to my heart because I'm not sure if it's safe inside anymore.
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