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Dec 2015 · 323
We are Trees during a Storm
HR Beresford Dec 2015
You bring tornadoes through me.

Furious infatuation fills my torso.

Thunder cracks between my thighs,
the lightening is warm and shuddering.

My hunger for you is never ending,
rolling over hills like clouds about to burst.

I do not need to wait for rain.

I am drenched in anticipation,
I am trembling like the fault line.

There are no lines between us,
only a small distance buzzing with electricity.

Our tides are ripping,
Our currents,
pulling and luring.

You are the waves rising to my knees,
the breeze teasing my shoulders.

You are the calm,
You are the storm.
Mar 2013 · 565
lock and key.
HR Beresford Mar 2013
I never dreamed of sitting in the meadows that blossom in your chest. I only allowed myself a small window to hope, to wish, to crave. I know now that it was big enough to climb through. We were meant to align, to feel the pull of each other, to recognize the thirst. We are lock and key. We are the lonesome trees, greeting lighting. We are the sound of jars taking their first breath after so long. We. It tastes so soft when I say it, falling out of my mouth like honey vanilla.
Mar 2013 · 495
dithering.
HR Beresford Mar 2013
I thought about running my fingers through your hair a hundred times. I didn’t. I stayed exactly as I was. I was afraid of the electricity in my hands. I did not want to start a fire on accident. I did not want to mend the burns. I thought about resting my hand on your wrist. I didn’t. I did not want to wake you. I imagined lacing our fingers together as our body temperature dropped and our breathing slowed. I didn’t. I do not know how to sew very well. I was two heart beats away from lightly placing my leg over yours. I didn’t. I was afraid of wanting to wake up beside you too much.
Jan 2013 · 615
oh.
HR Beresford Jan 2013
oh.
My heart is a deck
with vein blue grip tape
and you are the wheels.
The trucks get looser
and looser
and before I know it
I am
swerving
across the white line,
dipping into love
like it’s a bike lane.
I cannot steer
with you
holding my hands.
The sun is a retired drum set
beating
on my shoulders,
your hands
land on my hips
with the sound of cymbals
murmuring.
Our melody is silent
banging,
the sweat
and the blood pressure,
the only remnants
of the music.
Jan 2013 · 2.7k
candlelight
HR Beresford Jan 2013
I had been flickering
for months

I became deaf
to my own white noise

I did not hear
the sizzling
of my own
dying candlelight

perplexed by
the burning
between my fingertips

I looked to see
miniscule carcinogens

I stopped feeling
the breeze
I could not calculate it
without equating it
to the swaying
of my flame

Without an internal inferno
it is cold in November

My hands are sore
from the friction
I have been causing
myself

with gratitude
I am burning again
my heart beating
with lovely combustion
Jan 2013 · 403
Everyday I tell myself,
HR Beresford Jan 2013
“Do not peek under your armor,
Do not peek under your armor,
Do not peek under your armor.

You can feel the rushing of your rivers without them leaking through,
You can hear the thundering of the heart beats inside you above the murmuring of sickness.

Though your darkest parts may scream for a silver lining,
may beg incessantly to be let out,
do not let them breathe,
do not let them breathe,
do not let them breathe.

You are stronger than the snarls echoing in your ears.

Scream louder,
drown them out,
drown them out,
drown them out.”

I cannot always find my voice.
Nov 2012 · 2.5k
chrysanthemum
HR Beresford Nov 2012
the soil in my soles
is wet
this time of year
the cracks
filled with summer sun
are mending

the seeds
of recovery
have been carefully
placed between
my veins

with every heart beat
I can feel the green
starting to make way
to the surface

it will be a long autumn
blooming with sobriety
nursing the chrysanthemums
adorning my lucidity
Nov 2012 · 858
rebirth
HR Beresford Nov 2012
with lotus hands
I have surfaced
from the mud

I mistook the suffocation
for the ground loving me
it felt too good
to be true

it was thick with leaving
warm with sunlight
I was a *****
for the murky

tired of the cloudy
I am striving
to exist
in the space
next to godliness
diving into
clarity

a flowering proclamation
of a renaissance
Nov 2012 · 862
recovery.
HR Beresford Nov 2012
I heard someone utter the words,
"Sober is just another word for thirsty."

And I did not believe her.

Until my throat started itching,
the moment I stopped the stitching
of molecules that altered me,
turned me around,
I had been treading backwards.
My body ached with vacancy,
my hands trembled with an appetite
that played the part of
of my hands on the wheel.

It is an agonizing contradiction,
to be weighed down by nothing,
every drop that plunged into my mouth,
every plume that escaped
the narrow path to my lungs
was a nail in my soles,
keeping me firm to the ground,
I became stagnant,
only dipping under the influence
to ask for what I thought
was needed assistance.

My temporarily
stainless bloodstream
bred venomous ideas
while the darkest parts of me quivered
with insatiable hunger,
and made a show of it
with my fluttering fingertips.

I had dreamt
on nearly every day of the week
with my eyes open,
of clawing my out of this
canyon of flesh
I had been trapped inside of,
the echoes of an empty heart
were enough
to keep me awake for days,
witnessing a continuum,
of sunset,
sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise,
yet the sky never brightened.

The darkness was addictive,
I became a ****** for the murky,
and I have been buried.

Underneath habits
that stifle me.

Smoke that leaves my lungs
no room
for new air.

There is an invisible layer
of soot
caked onto my skin
falling from my nights spent
drunk and unaware
of which direction
I was growing.

My odometer
slowly screams
for me to stop,
to reverse,
begin again.

My shower head works hard.
It tries to bathe me in rebirth.
The shampoo bottle whispers
with its shape,
asks me to sing again.
Why did I stop singing?

Because I no longer enjoyed the sound of my voice.
I stopped believing in it.
Drenched in half truths
and uncut delusions,
my tongue was poison.

I had denied the beautiful methods
of me.
And employed the ugly.
I gave a managerial promotions
to the mean
the spitting mad
and the angry
slices of my heart.

But I will dig through
these concrete slabs
of toxic routines.

And I will take back my beauty
and revive my love.
And become who I am,
climbing out of who I have been.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
How do you get those boots on?
I’ve never seen any straps or laces or snaps or velcro.
When did you know you could fly?
Did you fall out of a tree when you were five and missed the ground?
How does Gravity feel about this?
Does that spandex itch?
Do you wear underwear under the spandex under your underwear?
Do those cuffs rub against your forearms?
How does it feel to a lift a car?
Like a tin can?
Like a paper bag?
Like a bucket of feathers?
What it is like to look eighty stories down and know that you are safe, that you can always save yourself?
Do you have a sixth or seventh sense?
Does it ever wake you in the night?
Do you experience the blistering heat and the chilling cold?
Do you feel it in your bones like I do?
Do you want to destroy your living room when someone has lied to you like I do?
Have you ever destroyed your living room when someone has lied to you?
Does your cape get stuck in the elevator doors?
Do you ever take the elevator?
Do you ever take the remote into the kitchen during a commercial break?
Can you stay on the couch and reach all the way to the counter?
Do you wear a mask?
Does it leave those red marks like my glasses do on my nose?
Do you want **** people who are dangerous and rotten in some places on the inside with one hand?
Does evil reside in you as well?
Apr 2012 · 618
11.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
11.
Only in retrospect
do I put together the pieces
that form the key
to my own sexuality.

The weeks when I bought
spearmint gum
and prayed to Jane Lynch
hoping that the girl who sat next to me
in third period Chemistry.
would ask me for a piece.
I didn't like spearmint
as much as I liked peppermint.
But she did.

The lunch breaks I spent
in the classroom
of my vertically rewarded
gloriously collar *****
and beautifully articulate
English teacher,
when I knew very well
that there was nothing wrong with my
essay.

The nights
when I was slide
as close as possible
to my best friend in sixth grade
thinking maybe she would turn over
and look at me
the same way I gazed
at the back of her head.

The smiles
that landed on my parent's faces
when I told them,
"I want to kiss girls
the way my friends want to kiss boys."

The hug
my best friend gave me
when I told him
I didn't want to join the
Gay Straight Alliance
because I didn't want people to think I was gay.

Because they would be right.
11/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 552
10.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
10.
For a long time 
I thought that the smell 
of the elderly, 
"that old people smell",
was the smell of decay. 

A smell so honest, 
other fragrant molecules 
could not bear 
to intrude 
or cover it up.

I wonder when 
I will start to emit a scent 
that signifies my adventure 
turning to departure.

Will any of my atoms 
transform 
when I arrive 
to a new life? 

Will I fill the noses 
of strangers with 
rebirth? 

With beginning?
10/30, 2012
HR Beresford Apr 2012
I sweep up the pieces.
Methodically
and with the same rhythm
of the feet that walked through me.

I gather them and I spread them out.

I touch
and feel
and remember
each piece
and who resided there.

I think about all of the places
they took them
and all that they must have seen.

And after studying and remembering
and maybe imagining
some of the history
since I last pulled out my needle and thread,

I write.
I stitch together things that were,
I thread through myself
the things that couldn’t be,
and I plunge
into everything
that will never exist.

I come out of it
shocked
and sober.

I draw my heart
into a Venn diagram of sorts
and try to keep experiences separate.

The lines fade after time.

Sometimes I awake
in the middle of the night
and must sort through everything again
because it has all slid to one side.
I walk carefully,
attempting to keep balance;
the road is not smooth.

I cry.
A lot.
I flush out the sadness
and fill myself
with emptiness instead.

But then I feel hollow
as if a breeze could pick me up
and I might blow away,
and I allow the thoughts of what was
to weigh my heart down
and anchor me;
this heaviness leads to
me ringing it out again.

Heartbreak is a vicious cycle
that tears me apart
but teaches me how put myself back together.

I also drink a lot of chai tea.
I warm myself from the inside out.
And do a lot of ballet.
Discipline my muscles.

The most excruciating part about heartbreak,
is that it is completely irrevocable.
I do not,
cannot,
remember
what it was like
to not feel this way.

How did I sit still
without my heart quivering
and making a show of it
with my trembling hands?
How did I smile
without feeling untrue
to the inner most workings of me?
Will there always be these cracks?
9/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 407
8.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
8.
My heart begins to
quiver, and makes a show of
my trembling hands.
8/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 508
7.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
7.
I never walk through a crowd without scanning for the back of your head.

Those beautiful black strands dancing just above your shoulders 
lure me to those blades 

that you sharpen during the day and you pull out at night. 

They threaten but their beckoning is stronger. 

When I squint hard enough, I can see the magnets in your hands. 

Your fingers brushed mine enough to configure my blood to run in your direction. 

Like the river you are everywhere.

Every branch sways with your rhythm. 

You have a beautiful act. And you never revealed all of your secrets.

I am here 
and you are here
but we have disappeared.
7/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 473
6.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
6.
There were days when I was sure
that those jars in the back seat of your car
held the breathes I couldn’t take when I was with you.

Did you take them for me?

When I did breathe, it was deep and slow,
I wanted you to dive into the micro veins at the bottom of my lungs and stay in my mind.

For months your name and my pulse were made of the same letters.

For hours our hands were not our hands,
they were one warm sizzling popping absently ever present hand.

You told me you felt altered
and we were.

We birthed a new shade of infatuation when we swirled together.

Never before had such a hue been found in the spectrum,
but we were sure we had seen it before.

Some place,
some time.

Maybe we can paint a house that color together.

In a different place,
in a different time.
6/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 693
5.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
5.
Regret
sounds like
knees hitting carpet
faster than words can travel
through a cellphone receiver.
It looks like
a black left fender
on a brown Honda accord.
It feels like
boulders placed
between your joints.
It does not leave
until you pick it out
from between your teeth.
It is a filling meal
that leaves you unsatisfied.

You must recalibrate your scale,
convert the value of moments gone.

Wipe your shield clean,
and watch the road ahead.

Asphalt under your tires
can fill you to new depths.

And you can be light again.
5/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 1.2k
4.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
4.
cotton swabs.

iodine.

needle.

deep breath in.

deep breath out.

deep breath in.

deep breath o—.

a spark lands on my nose.

smoldering and burning.

metal is hot and loving.

rebirth is a pyrexia.
4/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 397
3.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
3.
Embers under my feet.
Burning into the earth’s memory.
Scorching my way to you.
3/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 543
2.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
2.
I am a flood.

Take me to a desert.

Unleash me when you are facing a drought.

I am murky,
I can soak you through.

I am teeming,
I am sure I could be heard,
splashing into the hollows of you.

A tin can,
rasping for rain.

Creak to the tune,
of the dripping from my veins.

Pouring bubbling trickling.

Come here,
basin.

Empty me.
2/30, 2012
Apr 2012 · 4.5k
1.
HR Beresford Apr 2012
1.
There are rockets in my feet.

Take me to a new level.

Where the oxygen falls into my lungs

and my blood slides through my circulatory system.

My love is unmelting ice under the sun.

Here I am.

Where are you?
1/30, 2012
Mar 2012 · 614
still.
HR Beresford Mar 2012
I put on the lotion that sits by the sink
and my heart briefly pauses.
I am electrified,
it smells like your hair did that night.
My bones start to rattle and hum
to the rhythm that we had.
The words "come here"
shook like mortars
on your lips.
Those two syllables
were explosives
buried underneath the wall
that stood invisibly between us.
You were my bomb shelter.
You were my compass,
I always knew which way to go,
in which direction I needed to travel,
to find you.
Even with zip codes
and times zones
and nearly a continent between us,
I could still hear clearly
your heart hammering into my ear.
Sweet noise destruction.
You were my furnace;
defrosted, I held onto you,
afraid that the cold
would slow my blood again;
more beats and I am more,
less beats and I am less.
With you I was anything,
I was everything,
I was no one
and I was every person
I knew I could be.
All at once.
You were my castle,
no moat.
You stood, humble
and wearing that shade of soft slate
that brought out the forests in my eyes.
Salty rain affection.
Your hands were my favorite umbrellas,
shielding me from the dripping universe.
Days with your sun
and I melted
into an ocean of infatuation.
The nights with your moon
irrevocably changed my tides.
I am still swimming against them.
Dec 2011 · 1.3k
another night.
HR Beresford Dec 2011
When I am done here,
I will be given to whom I owe everything:
Earth.

My body will become one with the soil,
and so will the invisible scars you've left me with;
and botany will bloom,
and a garden will flourish from my body,
thus making you and I:

forever.

Long after I am gone,
people will walk by at this time of night,
and if they are of the observant type,
they will see the glowing pedals in the moonlight,
and they will pause and whisper,
"Wow.
So lovely.
This has been grown will love."

And, silently, they will wonder,
"Who keeps this up?
Who trims and preens and cares for it?"

And the wind will rustle the leaves on nearby trees,
and a Black Eyed Susan will blossom before their eyes,
and they will utter a small disbelieving,
"Oh."

And that small two letter one syllable will dance
off of their tongue and into the night air,
and Luna will smile,
and that person will keep walking,
and the waves will roll on,
and the Sun will rise again.
Nov 2011 · 738
cold.
HR Beresford Nov 2011
November rain,
you slay me with your bravery.

Falling without hesitation.

Gathering in clouds.

Praying;

for destruction,
for implosion,
for release.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Nov 2011
We were meant to be, darling.

But only for a little while.

Long enough to discover our artistry, but not long enough to create together.
Long enough to know each other, but not long enough to forget all else.
Long enough to learn of love, but not long enough to be lovers.

Not long enough.

Not long enough.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
Nov 2011 · 546
perhaps, now.
HR Beresford Nov 2011
there is a silent boom

that paves through the bones which I call “mine”

the vision I use, blurs
and the heart sputters

I think that maybe
it will not start again

that maybe this is it

that the blood will finally slow
and stop

that the skin that holds me in will cool
and harden

that the eyes I see out of will glaze over
but not leak

that I will exit
only to enter
somewhere new.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
Oct 2011 · 625
intrinsic.
HR Beresford Oct 2011
Out into the dark forest
I will go.
I will wait for him,
not patiently,
but I will wait;
at the mouth of an ebony river,
listening to what the Mother has to say.

And out into the thick dark forest
he will go,
hunting for me.
Searching
like my warm breath
on his neck
keeps his heart beating.

From miles away
he will hear me
whisper his name,
my love rippling through the soil.

Leaves will fall
with the trembling of my hands,
just before they rest on his shoulders.

And in the unearthly spotlight
we will be guided
into each others minds,
for there sleeps Salvation.

And we will thrash and thunder
and bang and crash
and Salvation will find us,
too alive
for it's deadly grace.

We will march on,
our hands clasped
with a fierceness nearly flammable,
into oblivion.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
Oct 2011 · 523
wily.
HR Beresford Oct 2011
try to find the needle in the hay stack,
try to fall in love.

it does not shine like they say it does.
it does not look so different.

you can't find it,
if you are looking.

only when you stop searching
do you realize,

the needle found you.

stuck itself where your blood tries its hardest to get out,
quickened your pulse with its residence.

implanted itself,
without your knowledge.

that is love,
a sly creature,
whose habitat
is you.

beware,
its jaws that grip your convictions.

watch closely,
how it weaves itself into your logic,
changes the color of your sky.

heighten your senses,
become an animal once more,
love is yours for the being.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
Oct 2011 · 1.3k
not invincible.
HR Beresford Oct 2011
With a smack
and an echo,

things of mine are broken.

Blood vessels detonate,
spilling, flourishing, blooming
under the seven layers of my armor,
blushing shades of
red, blue, green.

They are embarrassed
by their fragility,
shy about the reminder
that they are not steel.

Immortality is
flamboyant as ever,
my shining ichor,
a beacon for the reaper,
whose mouth begins to water.

Only a false alarm,
the green and yellow
glistening contusion whispers.

Dust myself off
and keep walking,
Pain fades,
and my heart keeps beating.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
Oct 2011 · 887
Dear Autumn,
HR Beresford Oct 2011
Dear Autumn,

I kneel at your oak alter, hands clasped around my steaming coffee cup, defrosting.
I silently count the copper leaves that fall around me, pulling your crisp raw air deep into my lungs, hoping to dust out the recesses of a rowdy summer.
The soundless spice of brown sugar cinnamon feels like a prayer in my mouth.
A combination of knee high wool socks and chestnut brown boots halt the cold from traveling from the morning’s frozen dew that rests, stubborn on the the lawn, into my bones.
Sweep clean, the ground where my heart leaped, when a net did not appear.
Healing is never over, but the seasons always come.
Fall, be kind.
ⓒ wordswithmypulse
Sep 2011 · 965
decadence.
HR Beresford Sep 2011
The blackness
that fills up the shadows of my mind in the daylight
creeps down my spine, under the stars
and into my blood.
My heart beats are muddled
with these veins full of lead.
Blood splattered walls
and decomposing kindness
are everywhere I turn.
I cannot escape my own violence,
my muscles taut
from a fixation
with unborn iniquity.  

But there is no need for concern.
I run, sprint,
from these nightmarish ideas
and these inky, wicked words
that take refuge
in my dreams.

I awake changed.
My subconscious,
a worthy adversary.
Battle scars, invisible.

Until I close my eyes.
© wordswithmypulse
Sep 2011 · 534
once upon a time.
HR Beresford Sep 2011
There was a girl. A girl who loved to love. She thought her infatuations to be so full and strong and solid, that they were nearly tangible. She immersed herself in other people and rapidly became attune to how their mind worked, their habits, their emotions, all of the minuscule characteristics that make them who they are. She washed herself bare so that she could absorb every ounce of them. It was magical; to hold so much of someone without them knowing. The only complication to this living, is that it is not living. It is existing, whilst filled with someone else. It is a species of love that is dangerous. And she knew that. Even so, the heaviness brought on by someone whom she could soak up so completely was life changing. But the weight began to make life difficult. Her feet began to drag and it wasn't yet time to get new shoes. Her neck began to ache from not only the sum, but the magnitude of her thoughts. While her knees wobbled, her heart expanded. She did not want to empty herself again. Her veins were filled with just the right amount of joy. However, by filling herself with someone else, she forgot what was there before and she couldn't watch the road ahead while so captivated. She had to open herself up and let it all fall out. Right then and there she swung her ribcage open and let go of everything that bonded her to those who she had allowed to occupy her. She felt light. She felt alone. She felt free. And she began to sprint instead of walk. She shouted instead of whispering. She reflected on the people who once resided in her and she smiled. And she cried. And she yelled. And she knew that without her own minuscule characteristics crowding around inside of herself, she would not be able to truly live, live wholly. And so she started to collect the pieces that were once her. And she rebuilt herself. Strengthened herself. Cast her nets wide, unafraid of losing those who she knew would be found; not by herself, but found nonetheless. And she lived. Lived thoroughly and fiercely. And she wrote about her love, and her sadness, and her anger, and all of the things the changed the shade of her skies. And she was happy.
© wordswithmypulse
Sep 2011 · 559
before I sleep.
HR Beresford Sep 2011
I check my pulse.

I count the milliseconds it takes
for my blood to get from my heart
to somewhere else in my body;

my toes,
my head,
my ears,
my fingers.

An inventory of my beats.

Measuring the strength of my heart.

Some nights it takes longer.
© wordswithmypulse
Sep 2011 · 656
rapid fire.
HR Beresford Sep 2011
thoughts of violence.

smashing
splintering
crushing
snapping
every hair at attention.


bleeding
bruising
bashing
bursting
hands clenched, fingernails digging in.


sweating
burning
twisting
cracking

the worst fight you will ever go through
is a fair one.

the only fair fight you will ever go through
is against yourself.
© wordswithmypulse
Aug 2011 · 489
severe.
HR Beresford Aug 2011
It was nowhere in sight;
I thought I was safe,
I took off my armor.

And then here it was again:
seizing my heart
like an iron fist.

Cold, freezing, merciless.
I choked on the torrents
of my own weeping;

gasping for sympathy,
in a room crowded with contempt.
My lungs, exhausted.
© wordswithmypulse
Aug 2011 · 681
third season is a charm.
HR Beresford Aug 2011
my august crisped shoulders long for pallor
and the warm graze of sea foam green wool sweaters.
my tongue yearns for the pleasing punch of cinnamon
and the silent shocking spice of pumpkin.
long nights full of honey glazed tea
and apricot scones that melt me from the inside out.
electric bulbs resting on branches
illuminate the leaves who surrendered
to the numbing temperatures
that seep into all things they reach.
© wordswithmypulse
Jul 2011 · 805
goodbye.
HR Beresford Jul 2011
I squint so hard I can’t believe my eyes are not diamonds yet,

and there you are.

There you are, walking.

Away from me. With your dress on a date with the wind. I think you have a rock stuck in your left shoe.

Your hair is a 14 karat waterfall and I don’t need to imagine the skin you have pierced with your eyes, I still have a stud in my heart somewhere. It’s a nice memento but inconvenient at airports.
© wordswithmypulse
Jul 2011 · 905
to flourish.
HR Beresford Jul 2011
my ears rang for hours like phone lines leading to diamond mines. my breath stayed trapped in my lungs as stars flickered into view above our heads, lightyears above our heads. our veins flooded with spirits, our skulls clouded with smoke; we made lopsided eye contact and smile crookedly. my hands rested on your knees, itching to drift north. there was not space enough for words between our thoughts that linked with the brushing of our lips and it was known at once that our hearts nearly exploded concurrently, our hands were still, locked together like a riddle with no vowels, with no punctuation, we stayed, together, like that, until the air around us stilled and our ****** beats were so loud, the weeds were bewildered. and then we stood, the riddle of our palms still unsolved, and our legs took over, propelling us through a parking lot so dimly lit our pupils resembled dinner plates, and we got into the car to sit, to revel in our veins that seemed to connect at a point not visible to human eyes. our smiles askew and our brains charming each other amongst the crackling, we left.
© wordswithmypulse
Jul 2011 · 578
through my wilderness.
HR Beresford Jul 2011
I know that there are times, seconds, spaces of space even smaller than seconds in which I will decide to leave. I will move my feet and my heart out of reach and I will sit under the moon, begging it to light the way home. away from here, from the sound of the melodies that grew out of the trees in the mind. I know that there are days, pieces of days held together by only the breathes that I take, in which I will decide to rest, to fold my legs underneath me and hunch like I’m peering through a puzzle, and I am. the roadmaps back to my heart are intricate, twisting and winding like oak trees that have seen centuries. With each inch of ground I pass over, the leaves are drier, the soil is filled with cracks, the brooks have been parched for months. I carry a watering can the color of scorched orange peels and keep my Ts crossed in hopes water with trickle out of somewhere, sometime, so I that can grow again.
© wordswithmypulse
Jul 2011 · 564
a wingspan beyond measure
HR Beresford Jul 2011
I have wings now and then, but maybe not today.
They're sensitive to glances,
quick to retreat into my bones and shiver me breathless, ruffle me wordless,
leaving me to fight gravity on my own.
They shine with a rich silver sheen
that threatens and beckons at the same time.
Fixed with fatal angles,
my feathers can end your life, or make it worth living.
I can be freed of the ground, of the pull that never lessens,
now and then, but maybe not today.
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 674
ditch in my torso.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
Your words are still here
like the streaks of mascara
that drip off my chin
and may never
wash out of my jeans.

Your eyes are still
in front of mine
like the spots that coat every image
after glancing at the sun.

Your songs are still here,
echoing through my day
as if this planet
rested in a cave.

I tried to run.

Broke down that wall.

I found myself.

I thought that would help
to fill the pocket in my chest
you filled.

It didn’t.
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 533
closer.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
Can I crawl into your mind?
Is there room in there?
What about your chest?
I could sit on the right hand side
and watch your heart all night.
I could be lulled into slumbering
with the rise and fall of your sighs.
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 392
open
HR Beresford Apr 2011
If I
was a tree,

I would hollow
myself

o u t

so that you could climb inside.
© wordswithmypulse
HR Beresford Apr 2011
I see you in the stars,
and you lay in all the grass,
you are linked to every tree.

All the oceans and the atmosphere are
you
you
you.

Supernovas in your heart,
lightyears of my love.

All for you.
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 709
gaze.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
the windows
to your soul
lead me into your guest rooms
show me the print on the carpet
its a good print to find words in 
the artwork on the walls in your head
the hues that were splashed onto the frames of your dreams.

the windows
to your soul
lead me back into my house
show me the wood floors that I have cried on
they are good floors to cry on
the curtains that fall onto the medium dusty floor
the shades that don’t shade but instead bring on the floods.
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 485
furnace.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
If I could crawl into a furnace and not melt I would crawl into you. You would warm me to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my hair could draw glass letters in the sand. I could glow orange and red with your veins glowing with the combustion of our love filling your form to the brim to the brim to the brim. Let me lean in, I don’t want to you to spill any of that love on the carpet.
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 559
the fittest for love.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
The weather was not the norm there. It rained red rusted leaves and stones that landed on the ground like cherries. The tree trunks would hold you, hold you until you weren’t lonely. The grasses did not sway in the wind, but the wind swayed in the grasses. The rivers were highways that, like veins, carried precious cargo. Heart beats in jars on boats, and as in our bodies, they traveled from mouth to feet. Inside every bird there was a bird; working the wings, flashing the talons, snapping the beak and turning the head to get a bird’s eye view. The raccoons flaunted their gills at the pond during their lunch break and the frogs swung from the trees, croaking their hoarse pleas for sanity. We might survive there, you and I. If only we used our teeth and our tongues and learned how to better use them every night and we could strengthen our lungs so as not to drown in a lack of words. We could make it. Even if the seasons were not the norm
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 748
sight.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
my eyes close
and I see a spectrum of forgotten things,
my subconscious unfocused,
so as to not remind me of things I told myself not to remember.
my eyes open
and my pupils shrink from the light
still allowing me plenty of sight
pulling with them everything I told myself I would not forget
Apr 2011 · 424
reflection.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
the girl in the bath tub stares back at me
she’s got eyes like forests
but no blue jays in sight
she looks the right
when I look to the left
she stares me down with eyes unwavering
she knows what I deny
denies what I believe
who does she think she is?

I don’t know who I’m not.
is this girl all I’ve got?
© wordswithmypulse
Apr 2011 · 1.4k
jigsaw.
HR Beresford Apr 2011
Hold me.
Squeeze me.
Hard.
Break me.
Shatter me
into p i e c e s.
Lay me out on the cold wood floor.
Put me back together.
And tell me how you did it.
© wordswithmypulse
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