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 Mar 2014 Hallee
g
Rewind to the first day you
Asked me to marry you.
It was raining, I wanted to kiss you.

December of our first year married;
You woke me up every morning
To watch the snow fall.
I rolled my eyes as you
Watched like a child.
You looked at me the same way.

Our first Christmas together was
About the same. It was
Only two years prior to our marriage
And you bought me a necklace.
I wore it every day
Until the day you left.
I hope the river likes jewelry
As much as I did.

Fast forward to our
Second spring together.
You pulled the car over on the side
Of the road to pick a wild flower.
We were already running late.
We always seemed to do
Everything too late.

Fourteen and a half days later
You told me you wanted me
To buy a nice dress for myself
And meet you at a restaurant.
I told you no,
I had work in the morning.
You drank every night
For a month after that.

You sang to my small unborn baby
Bump every night before bed.
Our next trip to see our baby's face
Did not go as planned.
You never could get me out of that
Black dress after her wake
And your eyes matched it
Perfectly every day after.

Fast forward to the day before you
Asked me to sign the divorce papers.
We made love.
I cried and said "this isn't working."
You said "I know."

I could hear you cry from the
Other side of the bed
And your hands felt miles away.
I remembered the first time
You touched me this way,
Long before your hands
Were calloused.
We were Hell bent on doing it
And I could hear the same lack
Of hesitation in your voice when
You said you had to leave.

Flash back to the first time I told you
I loved you.
I said it too soon. You said it back,
I didn't expect you to.

You left your ring on the
Coffee table our last night.
Suddenly I missed the rings
Of condensation marking the
Table every night and the
Clanking noise your ring
Finger made against the beer
Bottles after every fight.

I wish I could have been enough
To stop you from drinking.
I remember when you drove away.
"Turn around and beg me to stay.
Turn around and beg me to stay."
You didn't turn around and
I did not stay.

I passed the garden we were
Married in on my way to the court
House to sign the final papers.
A couple was leaving, newly wedded.
I find irony in that.

A few years later I passed you
On the street.
It was snowing, you had that same
Look in your eyes.
You smiled at me, a distant
"I'm sorry," smile.
I nodded, but I could not smile back.
You see, I never stopped loving you,
But I was never sorry for
Letting you leave.

I still find your cuff links buried
In my jewelry box some days.  
This is the day I watched the
Locket you gave me
Sink to the bottom of a river.
I think you could find my
Hope lying there, too.

Remember the time you kissed me
In the rain?
First slow and timid, then
Passionate as if it was the
Last time we would ever kiss again.
I apologized thirteen times that day
For things that had
Not happened yet.

I think a piece of me knew all along
I would have to let you leave.
The day I said good bye
The words burned my lips
Like acid exactly like they did that day.
I said "I'm sorry."

Seven hours staring at empty
Beer bottles as you
Slam them on the table.
In fact, it's been months since
You slammed anything but beers
And I think that is where
We started to fall apart.

Three years since you left and
I cannot bring myself to love another.
I bet she is beautiful and
Kind and loving and
I bet she does not cause you to
Drink until you cannot feel.
Three years later and I realize now that
I will love you until I die.
 Mar 2014 Hallee
Ann cobb
Carved
 Mar 2014 Hallee
Ann cobb
I carve the words
So carefully into my skin
The words that you say
Hurt me within
You say there just words
And they can do no harm
But look at my skin
I guess you were wrong
The things people say........they really do hurt
 Mar 2014 Hallee
zasrany

You are stronger than you realise.
You are crueller than you realise.
The smallest words will break your heart.
You will change. You’re not the same person you were three years ago. You’re not even the same person you were three minutes ago and that’s okay. Especially if you don’t like the person you were three minutes ago.
People come and go. Some are cigarette breaks, others are forest fires.
You won’t like your name until you hear someone say it in their sleep.
You’ll forget your email password but ten years from now you’ll still remember the number of steps up to his flat.
You don’t have to open the curtains if you don’t want to.
Never stop yourself texting someone. If you love them at 4 a.m., tell them. If you still love them at 9.30 a.m., tell them again.
Make sure you have a safe place. Whether it’s the kitchen floor or the Travel section of a bookshop, just make sure you have a safe place.
You will be scared of all kinds of things, of spiders and clowns and eating alone, but your biggest fear will be that people will see you the way you see yourself.
Sometimes, looking at someone will be like looking into the sun. Sometimes someone will look at you like you are the sun. Wait for it.
You will learn how to sleep alone, how to avoid the cold corners but still fill a bed.
Always be friends with the broken people. They know how to survive.
You can love someone and hate them, all at once. You can miss them so much you ache but still ignore your phone when they call.
You are good at something, whether it’s making someone laugh or remembering their birthday. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that these things don’t matter.
You will always be hungry for love. Always. Even when someone is asleep next to you you’ll envy the pillow touching their cheek and the sheet hiding their skin.
Loneliness is nothing to do with how many people are around you but how many of them understand you.
People say I love you all the time. Even when they say, ‘Why didn’t you call me back?’ or ‘He’s an *******.’ Make sure you’re listening.
You will be okay.
You will be okay."
The poem was written by a ******* tumblr named Ivy you can check her out here , http://ohthativy.tumblr.com. I apologise for not giving her credit from the start I just didn't know who the author was.
 Mar 2014 Hallee
berry
surplus
 Mar 2014 Hallee
berry
what you need to understand about me is that i am nothing more than misplaced passion and a pair of blindly swinging fists that tremble with unrighteous anger. so allow me to apologize in advance for the fires my subconscious starts. i am a clumsy compilation of ill-suited lines that will never see life in your poetry. at least, not like they used to. you are a book filled with with pictures i never got to take, and every day i am forced to sit idly by while she starts a new roll of film. the missile crisis reincarnate is inside my chest, so forgive me for not being able to control when i shake. forgive me for fumbling with syntax so crassly. i know better than to spew hate and call it poetry. please understand that the endless series of sinking ships in my head makes it difficult to form coherent thought. my thoughts, will **** me, if your absence doesn't first. i think about your hands more than i am proud to admit, and when i picture them reaching for her i feel so sick. i'm sorry. i am so sorry that i haven't yet learned how to moderate the volcano in my throat. i'm so sorry for spitting fire with my eyes closed. forgive me for confusing anger with bravery and burning down too many houses to count. in my misguided thirst for blood i weaponized memories and threw them like daggers in every direction, but the only one being hit is me. i am so tired of bleeding, i am tired of this one-sided war, i am tired of being a war. i tried so hard to be catharsis personified but i have to face the reality that my arms would only hold you like a grave. i loved you like rainwater, and lost you like time. you were never mine. you were never mine. you were never mine. i have to say that to myself every day because it eases the pain of watching you belong to anyone else. but i can't ignore the surplus of "what if's" wreaking havoc in my consciousness. i think that's why i get so angry when i picture you laughing with her instead of me. i am blocking out the memory of the night you told me my laughter could cure your sadness. ******* it. i am trapped in a nightmare where the walls of the home we built are lined with photographs of her. this is why i can't breathe at the thought of her smiling when the flash goes off. they say that nothing good stays; i have never been good at leaving, so i guess that makes sense. you once referred to me as an anxious mess you would spend the rest of your life cleaning up, and i can't get that out of my head. i hope you know, that after everything, i would still sit and collect dust on a shelf in your house forever, if that's what you wanted me to do. but i know it's not, so i'll go back to apologizing. i'm sorry that my rage doesn't have an off switch. i'm sorry for being a literal spitfire. i'm sorry for being an earthquake under her glass slippers. i'm sorry that my mouth is a loaded gun and that i have ****** aim. i swear to god i'm trying not to shoot so often but this is one of the hardest things i have ever done. so until i learn control i will burn in silence with the safety on.  

- m.f.
 Mar 2014 Hallee
Tom Leveille
i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me

i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes
 Mar 2014 Hallee
berry
let me first say, i have absolutely no idea what i'm doing
and i don't really know what this is or where to start.

i am comprised of scratched porcelain and bad dreams -
made up entirely of half-hearted attempts at sanity,
countless unspoken "i need you's",
and ever-faltering faith in myself and those around me.

i am not a poet, or at least not a good one, i don't think.
i feel a lot of things, sometimes all at once -
other times i don't feel anything at all, which scares me beyond
a level of which i am capable of explaining to you.

i nearly jumped in front of a train in april of this year. i don't know why.
my feet ventured toward the platform before it had even registered
in my head that they were doing so. i heard my best friend speak my name,
and snapped out of the trance. not a lot of people know about that.

i've been in love a lot of times with a lot of different people.
i have a fear off falling but a tendency to jump from high places.
i don't read books as much as i used to, but i'm working on that.
i'm in love right now and it's really difficult but it's nice. i'm happy.

i grew up with five brothers, so i like to think that made me sort of tough.
(but i cry every time i see a deer or a possum on the side of the road.)
i don't smoke cigarettes anymore, partly because my father hates them,
partly because they remind me too much of someone who liked them more than he liked me.

i write a lot about people who i don't talk to or see anymore. they don't live in my heart,
but the curse of memory is more often than not unbreakable. i call it leftover poetry.
then again i don't consider any of my pitiful mutterings to be poetry. just a bunch of
raggedly strung together words that sometimes rhyme a little bit.

i used to want to die and i wrote a song about it that a lot of people really liked.
i don't want to die anymore. i will never show that song to my mother.
i am much more content with watching people talk than actually talking myself.
this piece of writing feels too personal and i don't think i like it, but i'm pretty sure
Eleanor Roosevelt said something about doing one thing every day that scares you.

m.f.
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