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Erin Atkinson Jan 2016
I eat books of poetry for dinner,
and you are on the couch next to me.
I know we are here, but what do we call this?
I think the word is home, but it
sometimes feels like a serrated knife.
sometimes, it feels like we’re holding hands
in our sleep. There is a book of words like home
in my hands: it is full of empty driveways and watering cans,
and dancing under the moon,
I eat the words, but starve on the feast.
I would have broken you like granite; placed you
like a kitchen counter. You were never meant to be the cutting board.
You are the knife. I do not play with these domestic things.
Come sit at the table next to me, darling.
Erin Atkinson Dec 2015
There are bluebirds flying all around
Inside my head
And I am reminded that tomorrow,
I may not hold your hand again
and I may never feel your teeth sink
Into my skin, again
                                      and wasn't that
                                   supposed to be
                              a good thing?

I'm left cleaning up the scraps,
the mess we leave behind
Like it's my responsibility
to carry your heartbreak, too.
                                         wasn't it
                                   supposed to be good
                              when I was with you?

I read somewhere
                       This is where you fire your musket,
              and this is where you fall and die

but I've fired my musket-heart
and I haven't fallen and I'm still dying
for you to look me in the eye
Like you still mean it;
Like there isn't some line in the sand
you have drawn arbitrarily
to measure what has been inside my heart
When you never cared to ask.
Love, those bluebirds are making it hard to see
through all their Pulsing wings,
But in their eclipse,
I'm finding a ring of light.
Erin Atkinson Dec 2015
If  I squint real hard,
You name looks like
When it's written out on paper.
Sometimes your name tastes like
if I say it just right.
Your eyes are the moon
That sometimes keeps me up at night.
But your heart?
Your heart is the ocean
I have been homesick for.
Erin Atkinson Dec 2015
I'm thinking about Flowers
        I forgot to feed
and rocks
      I wear
but don't always believe in.

                               I always wanted
                                             to be
              wanted roots to
But I am not dirt, nor root, nor flower.
I am the empty watering can.
Erin Atkinson Dec 2015
somedays, Love is like an empty driveway. sometimes Love is a grizzly; when it wakes, it growls at you. sometimes, Love is a full moon. Love dances with You and forgets its claws and gnashing teeth. sometimes, Love doesn't know that its bites aren't supposed to hurt. but sometimes You don't either, so you forgive. sometimes Love is a cat that scratches and comes back purring. You don't fault it for being that way. Love is not easy to understand, but at least You are always willing to try.
Erin Atkinson Dec 2015
I saw the Earth once, and fell in love.
I wanted to be named dirt.
You laughed, called me mud,
But I love all things that hold up the sky
and You forgot that one is part of the other
and that I am part of everything.
I remain,
                both dirt and sky
       disappear with no name.
Erin Atkinson Dec 2015
I think
           there are flowers growing
                                    out of your
You taste like weeds:
         Wet and
                                      Our roots
                                         or legs
in the dark              once
and I thought I remembered safety
in the vines
           But now they have

          I am like this empty house.
I am all cuts
         all bruises
         all dirt
And it hurt          when you left me
                     but I
            am still standing
              but still strong
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