Your lovers still linger on your breath
Biting at your tongue.
Before you speak your words
Spill at your lips and Drip down your chin.
Your Sentences quarrel with saliva
Tangled like loose threads at your feet
And you leave them
To slither down the indentations in the floor,
Cracks in the wood symmetrical to the lines you drew on their bodies
With your careful fingertips.
Their hearts gathering like dead skin under your nails.
#love #breakups #heartbreak
A different room sleeps
under the edge of the water
It’s windows glistening, the sunlight like a hot breath
fogging the glass
beneath the jumping meniscus.
for even still water is
never quite still.
The Newton's cradle
The rocking of an unknown world.
#nature #beauty #art of seeing
My lover's eyes glow as the morning sun-
That peaks its head above the evergreens
And yet shine on as daylight comes undone
And still, persist within my nightly dreams.
My lover's hands are delicate as snow-
That twirls onto the fields with ne’er a sound
And every bit as graceful are her toes
That bear her lovely shape across the ground
My lover's lips are red as hungry fire
That dance across my skin with every kiss
And warm my chest with unrestrained desire
That leaves me in a breathless state of bliss
But when she speaks, her lips no longer pursed
All that her beauty’s done is soon reversed.
I love the thought
Like a dream bird flying at night
I imagine us together
like little monkeys
Some uncertain moments
I cannot falsely contain
With only a basket
woven from metaphors.
Some unwearied feelings
before I can catch them
Like a child clapping her palms
Reaching to intercept the path of a bumblebee
Flitting towards plump roses
These words sting my fingers, too
As I write them
the petals of paper droop,
Too laden with honey.
These blossoming dreams tickle my lips
But, I cannot speak them
They hold my hand, rub their fingers on my thumb
But, I cannot write them
They flower in the soils of my thoughts
And I reach out to pluck their petals, one by one
Only to find they have
Wilted too fast
for my idle touch.
By way of a kiss
That empty can be full
You lead this dance
And I will follow
If this was the middle of the desert
your words would be a mirage
but, I am happy to fall for them
entangled in your web of fake metaphors
you backseat drive my mind
until I don't know the right way to go
on my own
until I don't know how to turn left
without your every present hand guiding the wheel
we meet on opposite edges of a lake
yelling so we can hear,
each other and it takes all to long
for me to realize we aren't speaking the same language
I kept nodding at what you said
like you do
when you didn't hear someone but you've already asked too many times
for them to repeat.
our minds were intertwining their hands
and I was the last to notice
or maybe I noticed
and I let it willingly happen
I will fall in love with you
and my mind will feel like
when you're on the swings and you look backwards at the ground
and it feels all to close
all too ready for you to tumble into it
so you straighten back up and swallow
the bile in your throat.
if this was the middle of the desert
we would be stumbling up dunes
our feet finding footing
and then slipping once again
it feels like I'm walking and getting nowhere
like no matter how far I lug my feet behind me I am still the same distance
from the top
and you're standing there with a haughty
or a bottle of water
repeating "Just one more step, baby"
if this was the middle of a desert
your words would be a mirage
so why do I keep telling myself: "just one more step."
when I know I'll never get there
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
They told her
As she dug her fingernails deep into her skin
Rolled her waist thinner
Like her flesh was made out of playdoh
In the uncautious hands of a toddler.
Still, she begs for them to knead her into the particular
Shape, press into the clay of her stomach until
She is covered in fingerprints
Her life balances dangerously on her tongue,
steadied only by a love she will not swallow
For she has been told
“Too much sugar will rot your teeth.”
ngl this ****** i'm sorry but it's 11:00 and i want to go to bed
She has a heart that beats like the constant rolling of the waves
That kicks against her mother’s chest as to always assure her
“I am here, Mom”
Her mother hears, whispers
while streatching out her swollen legs in the bath
“The world is not on your shoulders
And you do not have to carry it around, nudged in the blades of your back”
She swims in her mother’s stomach
Practicing her backstroke and doggy paddle
She plucks the flower of her mother’s breast
With her sleepy mouth as to always assure her
“I need you” Mom
She has bones like flowers planted in the soil of her mother’s smiles
And drooping eyes
Sprouting against the warmth of her chest, she touches the buds
of her blossoming fingers to her mother’s heart
She stumbles with her pudgy little legs,
teeters, slips, crashes down to the floor
And still manages to avoid the cracks in the
Or her mother’s aching back
As if to assure her
“I love you, Mom”
She spent all her eyelashes
And birthday candles
And 1:11 “close your eyes and breathe through your nose” wishes
On one moment
One moment that sloshed around, losing its heat like a soup
Left out too long.
She spent all the soft breaths of dandelions
On one person who’s sleepy skin
Under her larger-than-life hands.
i am running out of
i am running out of
scrapes on my knees
running out of
new corners to cross
in this neighborhood
we are growing up in the same houses
with the same curtain of trees draping
their limbs over our windowsills
we are sleeping in the same bedsheets
wrinkled from the imperative
tossing and turning
we inflate our chests
and float away like red balloons
a freckle in the pale complexion of the sky
for this love affair with the pavement
has lost its edge
this slipping on
slimy banana peels
we have bitten and scratched and stained
the doors of your fingers
studied every trail of your fingerprints
i have grown older in the palm of your hand
your fists raised to the sky
it is time for you to open them.
you are poison ivy.
growing in my heart, sprouting first as a little bud at the base and then wrapping your tendrils and vines around tighter and tighter until I can barely breathe.
you are poison ivy
itching at the disassembled strands of my affections and i want to tear my chest open, pluck off the petals of my heart, hands coated in pollen and
there are no more petals
left to give.
you are poison ivy
you still spread your arms around me, reaching for more that i can give, lathering my pollen into every crevice of your poison skin.
you are a silver bulb and I am the moth that attaches to it, shadowing your every move,
the way your fork always grazes your plate before
set it down.
The way you run your fingers over the delicate arch of your ear or how you draw the sides of your books close together when you read,
as if trying to pull the
literature close to your body, letting it seep into your naked eyelids.
I wish i was that literature.
There was a whole new garden of emotions, of loss and sorrow sprouting delicately at my fingertips and
were not aware and
now all i want is to uproot my garden and start again.
you are poison ivy
and i can't stand you, that itching that feels like screaming and ripping and scarring
You were an itch that i scratched over and over until i bled
and once the bleeding had stopped and the cuts had scabbed over
I itched it again
love is not a safe word
it’s one haiku revised 400 times
on cracked leather chairs in the corner of cafés
some of us love badly
she says as she kisses the rim of her glass.
some of us love stretched out
like pizza dough that rips when our rolling pin rolls it too thin.
some of us love in secrecy
we do not trust your hands.
you try to pull our scalp off and draw your portrait on our mind
some of us love clean
like bubble bath that smells like lavender from some fancy store in the mall
some of us love *****
we cant clean you off our skin
some of us kiss with our teeth
some of us braid our lovers into our hair
and when we remove the hair tie
it is crimped and messy and tangled
some of us love love
but only far from home
when we slip into bed we start thinking
and we can’t stay still
some of us wash our clothes even when they don’t smell
or aren’t stained
just because it feels like you are inside of our shirts and pants and sneakers
some of us walk alone past your house
on the way to ours
and stop at the front step
waiting for you to come out
and smile at us
the only thing we wait for today
are the smudged signatures of snails
scrawled across your pavement
some of us love to the bone
until there are no more “ifs”
just “is” and “are”
the collected poems of our fingers
swollen, bruised, red like a bouquet of roses
some of us love
and we regret it
we never get home in time for dinner because of it, we leak like a faulty faucet, we sleep with our pillows over our heads to keep everything in
but some of us love
some of us own a watch and know the time with a glance at our wrist, some of us own a sponge to soak up the water, some of us own satin pillows that feel like whispers on our cheekbones
i don't want to be your girl
your grandmother's porcelain
for i breathe the same air
drink from the same sink
with your obscenities
your fingers feel like late june.
and it didn't
that we'd never find our places
forever laced inbetween each other's thoughts.
my baby is softly pink
and i listen
while she dreams
tell her please
"make me feel something."
carry your mind on the small
of my back
and too often
we do not show
what knots behind our ribs
when my fingers trace you
they feel more than skin
more than bone
you touching my knees
under becoming jeans
you can push on my
let your honey drip down my lap
make me feel something
underneath freckled skin
and idled away in your late june bones
why don’t i feel something?
The trail of a wedding dress
The flower girl holds with tiny fingers
We too hold the endless stain of blood
On white t-shirts
On nights that scatter blue trees over black heart
Alight by shooting stars
The mother tells her child
Unwilling to unlock the truth
The truth those stars
Don't grant your wishes
They grab them
With scarred scratching hands.
The damp stitches in the soil
Cemetery symmetrical to hospital
Those shooting stars circling
Like a vulture
Speeds towards dead carcasses
Still, the murdering star will not cease
To break bones
That have already broken
To take lives
That have already been taken
What is already charred
It smells like not your favorite food for dinner
It smells like having to do your math homework
It smells like burning books
It smells like gnawing on your own skin for feast
It sounds like tired, howling machines
Spurring and sputtering, never-ending their onwards trek
Swallowing distances and with it, nameless faces
For nothing has gone without the occulent scratching hands taking hold
Today the earthquakes of death
Don't make the land shake anymore
For it has learned to cope
With the desolate cemeteries filled with mute bones
Today burns like gasoline
Looks like intestines decorating destroyed doors
Today it rains curdled crimson
Tell me shooting star
If the child liked jam on his toast
Did he snore?
Did he like math? Or english?
Shooting star doesn't know and neither the bombs.
As bodies fall from trees
like rotten plums.
The world was born in blood
And has not ceased to suckle its wounds
Endless blood thirst, Endless war
But not endless skin to bleed
he wraps you in the seams of his quilted fleece jacket
only for you to tumble towards teetering ground with a
myriad of other dissipated items
a dollar bill
a cough drop wrapper
and breakfast bar crumbs.
his face backlit, the stained windows of the church
in which you have learned
that the weight of the world cracked atom's ribs
and made woman
the product of his suffering
you are not made from the vestige of this man nor the absence of him
you do not owe this to him
you do not owe him the gnawing on your fingernails: numb
you do not owe him your skin, he buries himself under
creates a crater in your chest and uses your heart as his cave
whisper: he payed for dinner (the one that you couldn't eat: your stomach pulled inside out from worry)
doesn't love you
you don't love him
speak: nei softly nei fading
do not let him lick tears off your face
and tell you they taste like sugar:
rip that piece of paper that he wrote his
slips his hand in your pocket at the club
he does not deserve you.
in a cave
off the coast of ecstasy
the greed of one man to another
is the perpetrator of death
from god’s ribcage
grow the gardens of eden
his blood flows through oceans
his fingertips write the
garden of verses
surrounding sleepy children
from god’s bones
skin becomes soil
clouds, his imaginary friends
fastened from the foibles of our minds
from forth: his creation
from flower woman is born
sleepily blooming, reaching out her
arms to the sun
as life comes to death
when she was eight years old
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach
it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
for she trickles with stars
when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot.
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
i wish i could take my skin off like a jacket
and toss it away.
has not yet forgiven
for the way it's been touched.
you are left behind
the victim of a mirage you'd stepped into
one yellow rain boot to deep
the dvds slithering out of their cases
scratched by fading sunlight
are your prized posessions
for every moment they hold inside
is as meticulously thought out
as the words you speak
there is more than just clutter
old boxes and chipped teacups
behind my ribs
i entrap so much more in the cage of my bones
breathe it out into a sky so ethereal that
I could float with the clouds and yet
seem so usual.
with eyes pinned on the screen
seeping into my temples
naked feet fumble with the sand
fumble with the hopping and twirling toes
of beach dancers
fumble with the endless badges i have gained
over the ribbon on my chest
places i have gone
but, it is all as futile as it is alluring
sand is just tiny, little rocks
i will fade, these images
will fade from my memory
like the endless
titles in a book store
and i will return to my reflection
ingrained in silver circle.
my pillow feels so cold
is it uncharted land?
am i the light you're drawn to?
a silver moth rested upon wilting hand
your fingers feel so foreign.
do you choke on your voice?
did i leave my throat in your bedroom?
for i can't make a noise.
if it's changing for the better
why are we walking south?
did you paint your words in something bitter?
for lemon coats my mouth.
sometimes if i try hard enough
i can still taste your toothpaste on my tongue
a faint prickle of peppermint
feels like splinters in my lungs.
had a chapstick tube
stowed away in your bag of things you never put to use
those scarred chapped lips
crevice of your mouth craved my heart
and subsequently my mango chapstick would serve it's purpose
on your lips and never mine.
among other things, you had a pair of white socks.
you never wore them,
(you'd ruin them as you teetered on slippery suspended logs)
you reminded me of a cracked open window,
always hoping you would be at the mullioned panes
chapped lips, white socks and all
but the only thing that pushed against the glass was the scent of mango air.
mango never smelt so bitter.
will you come home
replace the mango air with your feverish cologne.
a swaying of the breeze and your tee shirt wraps a cotton arm
around your waist
the bitter aftertaste
your tongue like grapefruit wedged against my teeth
i missed the smell of burnt bread bottom,
when we were in the kitchen
and the gown of silver hemmed water that danced down the roof,
again and again and again
but, when you come home next month.
I will be gone.
around our home
had long since
and that brown picket fence no longer bends around my heart
i am somewhere where the mango still smells sweet
girls give my their chapstick for i've long since run out of mine.
the sun rises
sets when she leaves in the morning
clouds curl at the tips
their edges unmasking freckles of stars
but still the sun rises
she is the sun on weekends
coaxing children's toes to bounce along
and elderly women to pass lemonade stands
"just a cup for the road"
she is my favorite chair to sit in
with a good book
and a blanket
missing a patch of leather
that i run my hands across
while i read
and when i sit outside with her
when the sun peaks its blonde hair
from behind the mountains
i know that she
is my favourite person
to bounce along cement streets with,
my favourite person
to pour a cup of lemonade
"just for the road"
my favourite person to sit with
a good book in hand
a blanket wrapping its arms around our shoulders
my favourite person to hold while we
watch the sunrise
she reminds me
with the windows open
she sounds like
pressing a shell
against your ear
she looks like sunflowers
and mowed grass
and picnic blankets
she shows me I don't always have to finish my sentences.
she tastes like pulp free orange juice
feels like the sand in between my toes
looks like a postcard summer
holds me with the kind of hands you never forget
she watches as I tap my feet to the floor
close the door
kiss her cheek
I have never been able to stop
tapping my feet
closing the door
kissing her cheek
for the worry of what would happen
if one day my feet would no longer tap
the door would be left open
and her cheek I would forget to kiss
she shows me what it's like to live in a world where unfinished is beautiful and
I try to find the words to explain to her
how I feel
when she rubs her thumb on my palm
how I feel
when she holds my waist
how I feel
when I hear her
even for a second
— The End —