Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Liz Hill Oct 2014
I dare you to
unearth that old oak box
I long ago buried
in the labrinth of my mind.
Turn it over in your calloused hands and
pry open its rusting and resisting hinges.
Plunge into my darkness,
my Pandora's box.
Crack open the lock on
my pained memories,
ancient whispered words,
long forgotten smiles.
Understand why I guard this
box with sword and shield.
Then snap it shut and padlock it
before your demons escape too.
Rough version but just something that came to me.
Liz Hill Sep 2014
One year,
     nine months,
          nine days.

You walked into my life
and turned it on its head.
You taught me what love was
and what love wasn't.
You showed me
how to save myself from
the darkness in my mind.
And in return, I gave you
a piece of my heart.

You gave me a forever in 648 days.

But ultimately,
you showed me that
everyone leaves eventually.

And as hard as it is to believe,
goodbyes(or lack there of) are a forever too.
Liz Hill Sep 2014
I fell in love with
the way your hand found mine
in the darkness.
How it pulled me
closer to you, was just proof  
that gravity and God
were showing us that we were
indead created for each other.
As if we two
very similar, yet very different
puzzle pieces
could together make a beautiful
puzzle that is ours
and ours alone.
Dedicated to the one who God and Gravity brought me.
  Sep 2014 Liz Hill
Sophie Herzing
XO
You better kiss me,
your mouth parted and lips
wrecking into the vagabond breath
that escapes from the center of what
I've been talking, and talking, and talking about
all the while you're trying to just shut me up.
So you better kiss me, kiss me
with your hands below my hips
pushing the skin from my bones
and pulling the sins from my mouth
just to spread them on our bodies.
We collide, half-inspired and arching
my back with your hands cupping the dimples
above my tailbone, jumping over my vertebrates,
reaching for my neck to press yourself, harder,
into me. Lights out, sheets to the end of the bed,
I sigh into your ears, XO. Again, and again, and again
gently until I'm bruised and ripened, soft,
pulsing on the verge, releasing our glow
crashing into you, kiss me, kiss me
you better kiss me.
  Sep 2014 Liz Hill
Sophie Herzing
The ***** of my eyelids fall,
delicately dripping onto my cheekbones,
powdered, ripe with a pink flush,
matching the creamy pigment I smooth
between my lips before a cacophony
of laughter runs up my throat and out
my mouth. My lashes, black, have been curled
neatly in a spiral that follows my green irises,
my gaze landing on your hands—
but that’s not it.

Just know, I am more than a pretty face.
I am more than the picture you have in your head
of the clothes peeling off my body
like a cocoon—watch me morph—
in the dead of your blackness, calling sweetness
to the surface. I am more than this exaltation.
I am more than the late night phone calls
or the kisses on your cheek.
I am in the breath you lost when I smiled, and I

am in the scratches on your back, the fickle
end of the lock you latched. I am in the noise
that fuzzes in your head, the empty space
haunting you in your bed. I am more
than what you expected—
but that’s not it.

I am also the beat behind these words, the puddle
that gathers from the spill on the floor. I am the mind
that molds. I am the truth that finds. I am the beginning
of every bitter end. I am more than a pretty face.
I am the exhale at the end of the race. Here I am.
I am the kind of hurt that’s still sore, and one day
I am going to be so much more.
so there.
Liz Hill Sep 2014
One.
My first kiss was a country boy.
His dorm smelled like coconut and summer but
three days later, he told me
he didn't want a relationship.
Two days after that,
he stopped talking to me.
He used me.

Two.
I kissed a boy
whose intentions were never
what I thought they were.
He had hands that wandered
and lips that didn't quite fit against mine.
That was our first and last date.

Three
I thought I loved him.
Young and in love, I let him
touch my heart and my body
and I thought we were forever.
But his hands were too big for mine
and he left me, like all the rest.
But I don't miss him.

Four.
Late night Snapchats that led to drunken kisses and roaming fingers. And regret.
I still think about it.

Five.
I was 19,
and he was gentle and slow.
He held my face as if I was porcelain,
beautiful and fragile.
After, he held me close to his chest
and I could hear his heart
beating with mine.
*Perfect fit.
Liz Hill Sep 2014
I kissed him today.
And a tiny part of me wished that it
would have been you.

Then I remembered that
your fingertips never wrote
novels down my spine
and your voice didn't
sing melodies into my chest.

You never understod
the stories written on my wall
and on my skin.

In that moment,
I realized that we were
a fairytale;
always trying to be something we never were.

But this with him...is real.
And sometimes, it seems,
the better stories are the ones
we write for ourselves.
Next page