i hate that our parents taught us to muffle our emotions
and i hate the need for a cigarette that i feel in your car
i hate that when i was younger i told myself to stop writing songs
i hate the need for loving that i feel when i'm alone
but it is going to be alright sometime
it is going to be alright sometime
i feel this soft
you don't know what to do when you're cold and lonely
your sit on my bed and watch tv
the seasons are changing
your hands are frigid and you are messaging your girlfriend
telling her existential things,
bringing her into your crisis
now you're remembering when you were thirteen
and in love with ingrown ivy
and your best friend...
who told you she could never love you and said so in the cryptic bubbles
she drew in your poetry book.
you're feeling kind of restless and you know you can't contest that
there's no way
to get out of this highhandedly-
so you turn away
and you make up words to fill the pages of
your soft leather book
and you think of sweet summer, somewhere special and you crawl
into your bed
where you can be warm
and blend in -
Next to you
I slow my breathing
To memorize the rhythm of yours,
Which calms me from the memory
I was always
The first person awake at the sleepover;
Maybe one or two girls awoke
But everyone returned to rest with ease
Except me -
I've long been looking for things to fill those spaces
Between sleep and wakefulness ;
I had never considered
Writing to you
Yours was the arrival
I did not know
I was anticipating
"GIRLS OWN THE VOID," the text reads.
I am not a girl,
And yet I, too
Wish to plunge into nothingness -
Can I hold your hand and join you when you next return?
Outside, accusations float past my narrow shoulders
And shudder across the concrete.
"GIRLS OWN THE VOID.
Back off, *******. We are home."
Unleash your depths
And let me drown, I
Want to learn how long I will submerge
Before my lungs burn up
And my eyes bulge out
Until I can no longer feel the pressure
When I am with you,
My smile can blaze
And my muscles
Contort themselves into positions
I never imagined possible
I brim with compassion.
My strength comes from encountering fear
And gazing into the eyes
Of whatever form it takes.
It lies in my acceptance
Of vulnerability as great as the trees
Whose aged, gentle leaves
Shade my fragile skin
And restore me as I slumber.
This confidence is a new development,
And I do not always bear it with grace;
But I trust in my abilities
And love for living,
(A rare thing! A new thing! A grand thing!),
Which I defend fiercely
And with great care.
Shame upon whomever seeks to shatter
The tranquility of another!
May the yellow eye of terror
Fixate on them
And inspire redirection.
64. Insp. By Emily Dickinson.