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Nov 2016 · 472
I can't and I can.
Jane Doe Nov 2016
Thoughts I have while writing poems.
I can’t write poems with the lights on, like having *** after a meal.
I can’t write poems in silence, like ******* when my roommates are home.
Like putting your hand over my mouth and over my ***. Like planting kisses on my neck and letting me melt into your lap.
I can’t write love poems, like making love with a ***** playing in the back ground.
Like looking into your eyes while you hold your callused fingers inside of me, like looking into your souls and being blinded by your hair.
I can’t write poems unless the muse grabs me by my neck, all my best poems came after he did.
And after he left, and he left, and she left, and he left, and he left.
I try not to write poems about you, I wish I had written more before I realized how stupid you are. Like I should have written about how you drunkenly serenaded me with Sinatra.
How you taught my tongue to tolerate the taste of gin. I should have written more kind words before they started huddling around me in masses and causing me to create something with malice.
I can only write poems about people I hate, like spitting in your open mouth.
Like letting you **** me. Like letting you fight me. Like letting your tiny fingers find every piece of me and try to preserve them in jars.
I can’t write poems with the lights on, like making love to your memory.
I can’t write poems in silence, like looking at my naked body in the mirror.
I can’t look at myself the same way since you touched me.
Like I am a piece on contraband, like my skin is stale.
I can’t write poems alone. Like kissing her in the snow.
I can’t keep building fortresses like this, like keeping her at arms-length.
Jane Doe Nov 2016
Sometimes I wish I was uglier, like I wish I had pins and needles sticking out of my skin.
I wish my face was riddled with scares from pimples and my dimples had shiny silver rods in them that scraped against the inside of my mouth every time I smiled.
The first time I fell in the snow it was down the hill. My limbs slipped from under me like a rug being pulled up to be cleaned and I tumbled into the snow and the ice. I felt my body give up on me and surrender to the pain I imagined the jeering faces of the drivers passing me by, I felt broken and busted but I felt alive.
Sometimes I wish I had seven heads. One to tell you all the beautiful things I think about you, another to spit spirtitual lingos and recite bingo numbers, and another to remind me of world hunger and why I should eat more and that I shouldn’t shrivel my body like dried grapes, another to remind me that the word for dried grapes are raisins, another to give me a reason to keep it together another to help me take it all apart. And the last two would constantly bicker, bringing out the bitter in me and the philosophy major in my mind who can’t seem to find time to put pen to paper and think about life living and longing, I am longing to feel like I am meant to belong somewhere.
But on the other hand, or head rather – I want to be an outlier. I want to be a liar. I want to tell ugly people they are beautiful. I want to let the hopeless know that there will be another sunrise I want to tell her she’s going to live right before she dies because I am so desperate to make people smile I will twist myself into the prettiest sounding lies, don’t tell me this is selfish. Don’t harp on me for wanting to have people accept me when the unaccepted are getting murdered. Don’t put a gun to my head and then tell me to be true to myself because the trigger will go off.
Sometimes I wish I was bigger, never very loudly – I want to be a dragon. I want to breathe fire on the ones who have hurt me I want to fill my lungs with gasoline I want to line up the firing squad and survive them I want to believe I am worth more than the labels; more than the fables they tell about “my kind of people.” I want to rise above the bullies and the torture chambers I want to be able to write poetry without being on the brink of tears I want to spring forth new ideas.
I want my ears to grow to the size of tree trunks. I want to be able to hear the earth while she cries out for mercy I want to close my eyes and see the thousands of tiny lies we tell each other each day. I want to bleed, open and wounded. I want to hold rage and love in both hands I want to take a stand and
I want to be able to love again. I want to be able to cry when she moves me, I am not a mountain I am not a dragon I am just a man. I am brutally honest and I can’t caress away the cold truths this world will give you but I can grant you a million kisses. I can send you well wishes, I can call you caring and smart. I can remind you that things have been hard and they will likely get harder. I can be with you when they do and I promise, I can hold onto you.
Oct 2016 · 664
Desert Water.
Jane Doe Oct 2016
She says the best revenge is being able to say “you are gone and I am fine.” That in time all love passes in one door and out another and that there will be another and I look at her and sigh and I can feel her love as it passes me by.
I saw you at the bus stop today. I held my head high and my eyes burned holes into your skull, I felt a certain lull in the self-destructive thoughts which patter around my brain like the September rain. You, are no longer the man who helped me stand. I am my own light house in the storming sea you told me we could whether together but when the weather got too tough you jumped ship and I am now waist deep in my own psychological ****, still spiraling around in circles about all the things you said to me and all the places you’d promised you would be with me.
But in that moment before I turn to get onto the bus I forget about that. I feel your lips part to smile and then you wrap your arms around me and everything is going to be okay. The dragon is sleeping inside me and you are keeping it cradled in your arms I can tell the difference between what helps me and what causes me harm when you tell me I’m beautiful I believe you. And you bring me so much joy I could cry, but I don’t. I don’t even try.
You board the bus the moment melts and I’m back to being incarcerated by my own thoughts. Which are daggers lurking around the dungeons of my subconscious I am digging my nails into my skin I am trying to claw you out of my mind my hair is scattered across the pavement my movement is staggered and my breathing is haggard.
I am barely alive. I am trying to tie you to a tree in my back yard I am trying to teach my tongue to say someone else name next to I love you. I am trying to touch myself in a different way than you did.
I am tying you to the tree with the twine I cut from your brilliant red hair I no longer care what you think of me. I am no longer care if you think of me, I no longer care if anyone thinks of me ever again.
I want to be rinsed in acid and washed in your blood. I want your babies to be named after me I want to stop screaming your name into the night. I want to hold someone else tighter than you ever held me. I want to be angry without being told to keep quiet. I want to be able to trust myself with my own misfortune. I want to be able to tell the difference between good people and bad ones because you tasted like rain water and I was being burnt alive when I met you I miss you, like a dessert misses rain
That is to say that I have adapted to being without you. I have buried everything we built together, like the house we shared and the bed we made love in every night until my body was a well you’d wrung dry I want to be able to say goodbye to you.
I want to be rid of the sin which bound us forever.
I am tying you to the tree in my back yard and I am burying everything we built together.
“And when your fourth love leaves you, you will want to **** yourself. But you won’t because you no longer think of suicide as a house you will build one day.” – Neil Hilborn Future Tense.
Jane Doe Sep 2016
Simon Timothy, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways!
You look like the sun, like daises smiling up at the moon. You make me swoon with your bad punch lines and imperfect rhymes.
You look like bees swarmed around honey pots soaking in the greatness of what they’ve created and you sound like serenades and smokers cough. And I want to be coddled by you. You smell like musky post rain September. You are so special and so patient, like you have been waiting for me to love you since we met and I bet when you look up faithful in the dictionary Simon Timothy will be smiling back at you. I want your name entwined into every line so all of our friends know I need you like a barricade needs people to hide behind it.
Like a breath needs a word to follow, like a bird needs a tree hollow, swallows need the breeze like birds need the bees like Simon Timothy how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
You bring out the best in me (more like the breast in me?) you bring out my worst jokes and my best one liners, you dress like an old timer and it makes my heart go wheezy like it’s a diamond miner. And your vest is fresh air. I’ve been drowning.
You, who showed me survivor and wrestling, you with your adorable obsessing. You, with your brilliant mind and the most charming laugh you, my rude dude with attitude.
Sarah Kay says: “you are the worst thing, that has ever happened to my poetry.” And it must be a twisted form of prophecy because I’m full of lovey dovey feelings I’m still reeling from the last time you told me you loved me, because I am broken at best. My body has cracks and crevices like an old rusty car and you still want to see how far I can drive. I want to thrive with you, I want to express every emotion I have ever felt, you make me feel secure like a seat belt but I am the buick beyond repair.
No matter how much mold is in there you still hold me while I’m crying and trying to tell you you deserve so much better but you don’t listen.
You, with the brilliant blonde hair I love running my fingers through, the one who kisses me like he already misses me even though I’m not going anywhere, you. Who lets me love whoever I need to because you know I need to and that I will always come back to you, you.
You, Simon Timothy. How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways!
Psst. This super gay poem isn't about a guy names Simon Timothy...
Jane Doe Sep 2016
To the author of the Huffington post “article” We Are The Generation Who Doesn’t Want a Relationship you’re wrong.
We Are The Generation Who Doesn’t Want to Be Straight, but you won’t let us.
I want domesticity like a fish wants a bicycle, which is to say that it would be nice but not useful.
I want the next boy I date to be able to flirt with the bar tender and to be tender and kinder than the last one. You keep putting us in jars with labels and naming us after stars and hurricanes but when we want to tear down your system you just say “shush now, just listen.”
I don’t want to hear your voice anymore – I don’t want to be told that I can’t love who I always have.
I don’t want any more halves, I want whole people to love me and make me more than the person who got called ***** all through high school because they couldn’t keep just one partner I don’t want to be an outsider anymore.
My darling says she wants someone to hold her hands when the world ends. You’ve put the fear of God in her and it makes her cry so much louder. My dearest says he wants to bring smiles to the people on the street and when he sees someone he thinks is cute his whole body goes mute I want to help him speak.
We keep swiping right like gamblers hoping for a chance at more than a second glance, we don’t want divorces or anymore court cases we don’t want second or third bases we just want patience while we pick up the pieces you dropped in front of us.
We want to keep believing in what you lost. We want pumpkin spice lattes and lately I want ladies, but not always because his smile drives me crazy and we don’t want babies.
We don’t want “consent is ****” we want control over our own bodies. We don’t want binaries we want multicolored beanies and maybe, just maybe, we want nothing but to be gay.
I read this trash article about how millennials don't want relationships and it made me a little mad.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/we-are-the-generation-who-doesnt-want-reltionships_us_572131a5e4b03b93e7e435d8
Jane Doe Aug 2016
I have been listening to terrible poems all day because you don’t deserve a good one.
You don’t deserve the spit that hailed the ground from my mouth when I screamed about pride and privilege you do not deserve the ground that I stamped on, hollow breaths escaping a tiny mouth.
You thought you were helping me to get louder but I have lost so many voices since I heard you scream.
You do not deserve to look at me! I am going to be so much better because I left you, you do not deserve to think about the way we used to be, you do not deserve to miss me because if you did I would not be writing this about you.
Instead of miles would be mere meters between us. Our ginger hair would still be tangled in the morning light, your body breathing beneath mine.
If you deserved to love me, you wouldn’t have loved her. You wouldn’t have let her slip her fingers around the cracks in the foundation of our house and hold you.
If you deserved to miss me you wouldn’t have kissed her, you would have told me about her the moment you got home, still dripping with sweat still casting off bets still letting me call you my best friend and lover, you shouldn’t have loved her. You shouldn’t have loved her.
But you did. Dear ginger, did you taste her? Did her sweat linger on your naked body like the shame that should have lead you to tell me. Did the courage it took to take her body wash down with the rain while you walked home. Did you feel any pain? Dear ginger, when you knew we were over – when we felt it like the fog which covered the rental car as we inched closer to home, why did you let me feel so alone? At what point did you not recognize me as the person you swore to protect? Dear ginger, when did I become a stranger, when did I become someone you wanted to hurt? At what point did you start taking dating advice from my abuser?
Dear ginger why didn’t you just leave me? Dear ginger the ***** were always in your court. Except when they were in her mouth. Dear ginger, did you stop her from ******* you off or was that a lie too. I don’t actually know anything about you? I’m sorry am I being unfair? Dear ginger did she run her fingers through your hair? At any point during the two encounters did you maybe think that, while you were inside her. “Huh. Maybe I shouldn’t ******* cheat on my partner!?”
I must be over this, because I’m laughing about it. I must be over this because I’m bringing up good jokes, or maybe that’s just how I cope with a situation as ridiculous as this one. In truth, I’m just done.
I wrote a poem about you called plan bee, about a bumblebee who was too fat to fly. It was wordy, I was nervous because I had never written a poem about someone I loved before. After I read it to you we cried together and made love on the ***** kitchen floor. You made me feel like a small puppy, I was always excited to see you. Even lately I’ve been catching my breath when I met you on the street and when our eyes meet I want to believe that you’re the person I could trust and I’m your little bumble bee. But you don’t deserve to see me, and you don’t deserve to make me happy.
Aug 2016 · 416
Untitled
Jane Doe Aug 2016
Less is more.
Blood and gore.
Mount Rushmore.
Rush away from me.
Like ****** water, (what are you doing to me?)
Traveling sales men sell me his body and his bruises.
On the weekdays, when the son says he wants the world to go away.
We lock ourselves on hide away shelves and built – in beds. (washer and dryer sets)
We play house,
Less is more.
Jane Doe Jun 2016
Laugh, because he looks just as unassuming and non-violent as the day you met him.
2. Contemplate swiping right.
3. But don’t
4. Contemplate swiping left.
5. Close the app
6. Don’t eat breakfast, remember how much he liked you thin.
7. Contemplate smashing the phone.
8. Re-open the app. (close it again. Close it again.)
9. Remember his voice, calming and challenging.
10. Wait for the weight of it to come crashing down.
11. Feel the relief of knowing how much you’ve moved on.
12. Say his name, softly to yourself in your bed.
a. Naked sunlight shifting through your freshly clean hair. (The same style you had when he had you.)
13. Put on something cute, feel yourself filling your clothes with the shape of your body.
a. The one he claimed, time and time again.
14. Walk down to the coffee shop, the last one you saw him in.
15. Sit out front.
a. Baiting the shark with a ****** nose.
16. Think about the red head who told you he loved you. (Think about him lying too.)
17. Think about lying on top of him, about playing with his brown hair.
18. Think about the gentle moments, the silence between you.
19. Think about how his clothes looked on you, think about how little you felt next to his taught chest.
20. Think about the moments which make you smile, when you wonder if he ever really hurt you.
21. Scream.
22. Open the app.
23. Close the app.
24. Run from it, like you ran from him.
25. Listen to the music he recommended.
26. Enjoy it because you don’t connect it to him anymore.
27. Remember his hands.
a. soft and hard.
b. He was soft and hard.
c. And fast and slow
d. And hot, but so very cold.
28. Drink coffee.
29. Drink water.
30. Eat something.
31. Breathe.
32. Scream.
33. Open the app. Close the app.
34. Laugh, because he’s not a house you’re ever going to visit.
Jun 2016 · 506
The Boy on Fire.
Jane Doe Jun 2016
You with the long fingers and the longing gaze.
You with the green (hazel, brown, brilliant.) eyes and the wistful sighs,
come. (Sigh with me.)
make memories, leave marks.
ignite me, like sparks.
Stay up with the night until the right larks sing.
Sin, with me. Wondering, what the morning brings.
let the moonlight light us.
You look like stardust, (and hair like rust.)
and there must be something.
Worth discovering.
(discover me.)
Jun 2016 · 729
Not your doll.
Jane Doe Jun 2016
When a boy asks you to structure yourself,
break his fingers.
Find his weakness
and will
them against him.
hold him to the standard
that all that is not structured shall snap.
Sharpen yourself to a point and pierce him.
Jun 2016 · 556
Hi(gh) how are you?
Jane Doe Jun 2016
I get so high without you.
I have too.
I can't let my mind think of you.
of your body against mine.
against hers too.

You pinned yourself against me,
and I'm still trying to figure out why?
and I can't cry anymore.
and I can't stop shaking and getting
baked.
Jane Doe Jun 2016
I love the parts of my body which you loved.
Even more, now that you can no longer touch them.
I can bring myself ecstasy.
I belong to my body.
I am my own lover.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bMpFmHSgC4Q
Jun 2016 · 614
Baseless.
Jane Doe Jun 2016
I sing louder without you.
My voice sounds clearer now that you've left my throat.
I don't choke on the syllables you didn't want to hear.
I am billions of light years longer than when you left me breathless.
You can no longer keep me, captured inside your eyes I am like the sunrise we never quite caught.
I am all the times you made excuses not to love me, I am the loudest time I ever told you I loved you.
Somehow, similarly I am so much more without you.
I am a kaleidoscope of colors blending and bleeding into one. I have completely come undone, where you held me, under your thumb, I am boundless! I am beating fists on chest, I am no longer someone’s second best I am brilliant!
Jun 2016 · 592
Loaded Questions.
Jane Doe Jun 2016
You're in every memory.
You've crept into every crevice.
First question:
Did I ever not know you?
Were you ever not there?
Did you actually ever care?
Did you listen when I said no? Now that it's all too late
Do you debate whether her tender touch was worth it?
fingers lit with fire you once fanned now they publish words about you I can hardly stand. I cannot stand up to you anymore so I ran.
But you didn't chase me, you've given me space in a literal sense but you're still inside my mind and memories.
That night I can home from the bar the evening after we decided to end things. We held each other and you held in that desperate secret.
I shouldn't have heard about her from someone else.
I was always truthful to you, but you lied to me.
Third question: When did it become inconvenient to love me?
Was it when you saw the panic in my eyes when you asked her to stay the night? Did it begin when I told you about how I dream about hanging myself by my own insides? Was it when I told you I wanted to die? I have tried, to keep me grounded and the sound of self hatred at bay, but baby I guess that just wasn't enough for you was it?
Fourth and final question.
will you listen to me crying in the room next to yours?
With your doors locked and your guns loaded with loaded question, can you bear to bar yourself from my hands.
So soft.
from my heart, hardening with every passing day.
Jun 2016 · 928
I Like My Body.
Jane Doe Jun 2016
I like my body when it's without your body.
It feels longer, stronger.
More complete.
I am not trying to compete to be the object of your affection anymore.
I am more than just your cutlery or the metal albums you hoard.
When I roar: The ground shakes beneath the feet I once thought needed to be so small.
I can call on my inner strength.
I’m renewed and rejuvenated

I’ve debated going back to you, fighting to get with you.
But you’d never go to war for me.
I see now that there is a sea that separates us
How little there was keeping us
Together, so I let her.
Be the boundary between us.
(She deserves better.)
But you broke us. Bent me backwards. (Buried me beneath sand.)
Now I stand on it: I heated my grave make glass, I thought we’d last.

But we’re passed now and I prefer my body; when it’s without your body.
It’s longer, stronger and more powerful.
I was a prologue to a burning book.
A shattered tea cup.
I like my body when it’s without your body.
Because it’s mine.
Jane Doe Apr 2016
Blank Verse.
I only ever write poems about people I want to ****.
Fingeratively speaking anyway.
(Jesus my puns are bad.)
I’ve had some semblance of balance in my life.
Up to this point.
There’s a joint in her hand and she looks like the sea.
Her eyes glazed over like sunsets.
I’ve got a beer in my fist.
First of many, and I mainly want to kiss her.
Caress her, I hardly even want to **** her.
Creep down her spine with my lips and cradle her neck with my fingertips.
She’s got that hair that holds itself up.
Like it’s keeping her up.
Like her hair’s a hot air
Balloon, is that rude?
Dec 2015 · 692
Cough Syrup
Jane Doe Dec 2015
cough syrup
drops: from your sullen mouth,
gapes and invites the flies to make their
home. Your mind is a maze
making me yearn for it,
How do you tick?
What lyrics stick in your head?
Where do you hide your dead?  
Flies flicker, stuck to the sweetness
of the syrup bottle
I am similarly enamored
captured, struck by your
****** in, by the potential for sin.
for the taste of the sickly sweet
cough syrup on your skin.
Nov 2015 · 405
Sand.
Jane Doe Nov 2015
My mother’s hands are soft as sand. She says something about where I'm supposed to be in my life and I'm nervous she thinks I should be standing closer the closure, she knows I'm not who I thought I'd turn out to be.
My mother’s mother made her the worrier she is today, and the warrior she had to be to get by.
The day my mother’s mother passed we mourned the progression of the woman we thought of as freedom.
Family has always had a huge part of my heart.
Now it's tattered and torn apart, everyone is aging and graying.
I'm only gaining so much knowledge on the subject.
I could write for hours - there is so much rage drumming against my rib cage.
I've saved enough sanity to grapple with the thought of losing you.
Looking at her now I see that she's been on the same road as me.
The mother of my mother made her promise I'd be better.
My mother's hands are as soft as sand - her sun burnt country betrayed her and now she huddles in the frozen north.
There's nothing here but our snow stung crowd.
My mother makes me smile, suggests it as fall back if my straight face falls.
I've never been able to keep anything straight - least of all me.
My mother made me, and I'm molded by her strength branded hands.
Soft as sand.
I've wanted to write this poem for a really long time.
Nov 2015 · 722
Pass me.
Jane Doe Nov 2015
Your tongue could start forest fires
With the songs you sing, you could spring winter forward.
You could taste like tomorrow, your trials could all be amounting to counting sheep next to me.
Your little words wrinkle foreheads and cause the catastrophes of nations.
You with little breath bring forth the wildest of worries from the wandering minds.
You of little touch take armfuls of truth and tackle the tortured.
You with mostly full mouth make magic when you tap your tongue against the roof of your mouth
Your rough and ragged hands rust around the edges like the sounds you make when the laugh escapes your raging soul.
You hold onto hope like masters picking up pieces, you could make peace with your mouth piece.
Picking at the scabs on your fingers, focusing on us.
On the ground they avoid you.
You with the sunken skin and swollen eyes – ******* on the end of that cigarette.
You’ve convinced yourself it’s all a good dream.
Days musty like the back of your car when we drive on the high way wondering which way we go.
You with time tattooed soul – sulking about the little time you have.
Holding onto the fear you foster under your ribs.
You with the smile I’d rush rivers to keep under my pillow
You twist your tongue around my image – wake to find me further from grasp.
Smoking grass holding onto the hash.
Hoping you have an interest in me.
Jane Doe Nov 2015
You never said you were scared, you never needed to.
You never thought I cared, but you and I adhere like super glue.
You have yellow teeth like a sunrise and you curse like caviar and I crave you like candy.
Can I be your desire? A drunken phone call on a Friday night,
You never said you carried the weight of the world on your shoulders.
Your eyes showed more truth than the circles we chased around the subject of who’s who.
And can I be with you? – I don’t need a train ride at midnight or a candle lit calling I just need your dry throat, coughing out last minute lies about not needing another hand in the darkest parts of the night.
Your soul has the shaping’s of something that sounds like heartache, beats like butchering romance and hurts like needles marking up my arms like foot-steps rushing away from what’s really going on in my mind.
You never spoke the words I wanted to hear, but here we are.
I never said I wanted to drench you in kisses.
Cover you with caresses.
I want to cater to your bad behavior and serve as a substitute for the sugar high
I never said that I kissed you in the rain, and again and again.
I never said we stood outside of that man’s house and held hands in my head.
I never said the space in my bed, could have been filled with you. – I didn’t think I needed to.
Maybe I do.
Nov 2015 · 396
Sealed with a kiss.
Jane Doe Nov 2015
There is a homeless man sitting on the step where we first kissed
and I missed the mark by about a mile, and all I wanted to do was make you smile
with my mouth around your soul, you've got a tight enough hold on me as it is and I'm still wondering about giving in.
I wanted part of the sin, and I wanted us to begin.
now look at the trouble we're in.
At least he's gotten me back into writing poems.
Jane Doe Nov 2015
There is a soft throb to this.
All my poems have long names.
My heart is always racing; it's also
always aching.
Beats like a clock. Tick. Tock.
Emptys me like a bottle of wine.
His kisses, like nails, like teeth; against
my spine.
heat, like heavy breathing, like unbelievable pleading; pierce my mind.
His memory. Like sand paper. Like pierced lips. Like skinny dipping. Like unmade memories. Like a life I've led before. Like lies, like keeping score. Like being scorned.

Like cuddling before dawn. Like being safe and being warm. Like being scolded and being  warned. Like being allowed and being torn. Like being kissed.
Like being missed.
Like being kissed.
Like being kissed.
And kissed.
Like heat.
He's, like promises of enjoying defeat.
Of relaxing into new sheets.
Like being kissed.
There's a soft beat to this.
Like being scolded. Like being kissed.
I have a dumb crush on a dumb boy and I want him to kiss me again.
Oct 2015 · 329
The Virgin
Jane Doe Oct 2015
If his eyes were stars she would wish upon them.
Perhaps then, he would look to her the same way.
If his breath were a poet she would hang upon it’s every expression.
Wishing for a day where her remarks would take his breath away.
She drinks in his breath, as if it would give life to her dull bones.
If he could tell her how she made his life light up like a Christmas candle.
She would blush at every line.
Her lips puckered with ****** request.
It was the most innocent of caresses. She held onto ignorance
with no wish of letting go.
Because when she’s with him, the voices don’t cry so loudly
she could write ten thousand poems about his gentle eyes.
Describing every part of it she would sweep with her damp burnt, licked lips.
Drawn into a line to stop the flow of words she wishes to whisper.
So she doesn’t open her dark bat filled mouth to his spring filled questions.
In the obscurity, she imagines his soft hand next to hers.
She sings a lullaby into his ears, and he wishes he could kiss her.
And she wishes he could too.
As of now, she’ll cry out to the voices to hush themselves.
And the dusk to enlighten her,
She cannot see the light at the end of tunnel; this façade is blocking the way.
All she knows is that she needs him closer.
If he could tell her a thousand times that the sun shone down from the heavens and through her expression.
She would glance down at the floor and hear.
He’s lying. ҉
Oct 2015 · 299
I can't
Jane Doe Oct 2015
I can’t feel beautiful because I can’t feel anything at all
and the lines I’m typing aren’t mine
and you’re just reaching to see your own spine
the lies you’ve spun can be told by the light shining through the dirt filled blinds.
I’ve got nothing left so make me fall.
Because I can’t feel beautiful if I don’t feel anything at all.
Oct 2015 · 325
Alone
Jane Doe Oct 2015
If only my heart beat in syncopation with my mind.
I wish to make the words collide, but separation is all I can find.
Still I force my hand to tell a tale a soul would plead to hear.
I pray to some cigarette and wine stained God that tomorrow will draw me near.
Yes, tomorrow I would fly high and caress the sky with such a tender touch.
But tonight I am buried, beneath emotion uncontrolled and contorted.
Tonight I cannot so much as separate a single strand of hair from my eyes without the flood of passion.
Pass the salt, pour it onto my self-inflicted wound we so often refer to as love.
But my love has been bruised burnt and destroyed.
I have cursed, killed and polluted my own mind with thoughts of sickness, and now I crave it.
Had I only believed the goodness in myself?
Not let the demons creep up and **** all hope of a new beginning.
Had I so simply as smiled and thanked the lady when she spoke, the gentle kisses of her soft words had pulled my mind from where it had been.
too where I am now.
There are no words. No motions, no belief.
I am Godless and covered in the spit of my immortal demons.
Would it be better if I simply let them win…
their knives are as sharp and their whip is warm.
Their sick pretend grace causes my hands to reach for them. But they’re not there.
Not here, I am without my demons, my lover, my God, my destroyer.
I am alone.
Jane Doe Sep 2015
You should just get out.
I’ve changed too much; the pretty lady you looked through that night isn’t the same space being filled by the broken body in your bed. So just get out, you don’t find my frightening or mysterious anymore. My ****** thoughts aren’t spoken words but ravaged thoughts, repressed and undressed for no one anymore. I keep it in, I cannot communicate the bastardizing ******* that’s in my head, I am not brilliantly broken, I am ashamed and busted.
I am not the princess you paid for. I am the thing you’ve worked so hard for, but have failed at none the less. I am the mess you let slip into your heart when you thought no one was looking.
I am not the wind, or the ice water down your throat on a hot day, I am unforgiven and easily forgotten. I am bitten but not chewed, I have bite marks the shape of my own mouth down the gaps in my spine and I am nothing, I am not my own mind.
So just leave, let this be a warning and just get out. I am not deserving of your serving or your love. I am pathetic and weak and baby I am not the sunrise you thought you were chasing I am the fire that burnt down your house.
I have done nothing for you but bend your will, I am not fortifying and I am not forcing you to stay anymore. So say what you but just get out.
Jul 2015 · 738
Milky bones
Jane Doe Jul 2015
I do not exist.
I have translucent skin,
I insist on the breath I take, I am responsible for no one.
muscle structure is a modern myth.
my bones only move on your command.
There is control in your touch.
and your memory is holding me down.
Jun 2015 · 447
Dust (Dusk)
Jane Doe Jun 2015
This house is as old as dust.
It creaks and sighs with ever once of pressure.
My room
Is dark and smells ever so slightly of someone who is not me.
The young girl who waited for snow days, the boy: his
Midnight eyes and, broken memories, intact.
(His heart and his head in a field somewhere)
She holds a place here, with the dust and the creaking floors.
There are moments held in captivity within these walls.
(Suspended in disbelief, for they cannot imagine who has replaced them.)
My heart still rests on the bed, my eyes weary.
A day of traveling behind me, a lifetime of moments ahead.
(the blunt assumption there is more to life than this.)
She is not me, the crossed legged one.
Computer screen, light pollution beside the old lamp,
(cascading the room with warm and comforting shadows)
What once frightened me, now I greet like an old friend.
I am here for a moment, as is the light.
Ignited with a spark and snuffed again by a whim,
Of something I cannot control.
This house is as old as dust, and I will return to it
Time and again, although it will never truly
Be mine
(ever again.)
I've been having a really hard time writing anything lately, I cannot possibly get motivated or inspired enough to create something. I am visiting my childhood home (age 12-19) this weekend and sleeping in my old room. I think that helped ease this piece out of me. Hopefully that will be the end of that dry spell.
Dec 2014 · 706
Fragmented.
Jane Doe Dec 2014
There are no hammers in my room.
No tactical advances which need enhancements.
no broken bits of furniture in need of further
assessment.
There are no screwdrivers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed.
nothing blotchy or broken.
or to say this house is less than homely.
There are no hammers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed. Deconstructed. Detonated.
No little lines on the carpet, no rusty pipes beneath my sink
There are no razors in my bathroom
nothing which brings blood from my retinas
nothing stinks of mold, nothing sinks in the carberater
escaping excavation
measure the short comings of my
makings, and takings, and tasks.
There are no dust mites beneath my bed
there are nothing but soap and cleansing masks.
sleeping with the boogy man, sharing his head
space,
no naked, termites in my walls.
skeletons in my closet.
nothing that would appall an exterminator.
nothing which says this house is less than
homely.
My mind is not nearly this neat.
Dec 2014 · 479
Untitled
Jane Doe Dec 2014
Watch him work.
legs swinging,
head bumping to the music floating between his ears.
look to his hands hold pens, pencils, stylus.
awkward stance, laying.
look up,
there's the rub.
You cannot see the finished piece, but the work in progress is progressive enough.
My boyfriend is really cute when he draws...

don't look at me.
Dec 2014 · 707
Necessity of loss
Jane Doe Dec 2014
I lose people, it's what I do.
While my friends lose car keys or pairs of socks.
I'm stuck losing people.
Tripping over shoe laces and old belongings.
Longing to look back and see familiar smiling faces,
instead I'm left with my own star dust, which rusts in the rain.
Inspired by my realization that my two most recent exes have deleted me off of facebook and Elizabeth Bishop's One Art.
Oct 2014 · 403
Technically.
Jane Doe Oct 2014
The artist sits with one leg crossing over the other.
she doesn't look at him, draped over the sofa, eyes softly closed.
she wishes his lips were as soft as they appeared when he spoke to her.

The historian studies until it's too late to think straight.
The artist will be sleeping and dreaming in
technicolor.
He hurts her from the inside, moving but somehow keeping his body motionless.
making her wish, his whispers were as soft as his lips looked
in the sunlight.
but he only holds history, and she would hurl his head at a canvas
if it would make the memories mute.
Sep 2014 · 1.0k
The Man
Jane Doe Sep 2014
Once tall, he now sits stooped over a stool.
drool, dropping from his lips.
pen in hand and hardly a smirk to share
where he once mocked.
the clock now ticks
louder.
He’s still regarded as a ****.
by everyone but her.
and it sticks like gum under
table tops, and flips
and flops, because he once had a confident air.
Now there is a blatant obnoxious stare.
A history of charm does less good
and more harm than it should.
Sep 2014 · 433
Untitled
Jane Doe Sep 2014
The world was cold this evening, hard as fresh rocks on the beach. There was no rain to lull us to sleep.
My love you and are floating.
There is no space more vast than the piece between our fingers.
millenniums pulled into the inches between your naked feet; and mine
bathed in the moonlight, the frozen grass.
We slept here, was it the pills which numbed our senses,
or did we only now feel the putrid sadness which emancipates all lovers.
lengthy discussions between my teeth and your lips, strong cheap tea.
and ***** toes.
millions of miles resting between who we were,
and where we were going.
Aug 2014 · 447
Let me go.
Jane Doe Aug 2014
I've run miles,
upon miles,
trying to forget how you smiled
and for every time I called you mine,
I'm trying to bleed you from my spine.
"And I am a writer, writer of fictions
I am the heart that you call home
And I've written pages upon pages
Trying to rid you from my bones
My bones"

Engine Driver - The Decemberists
Aug 2014 · 327
The Pain in my Palm
Jane Doe Aug 2014
a relapse washed over me like the break of day
a firm and gentle wave caressing my every movement
this was only ever as far away as the edge of my finger tips
now I glide across the ice, and the blood flows red as your lips.

I've lived so long with you there.
Just sitting and waiting
it’s almost become calming, the way you press yourself against my skin
until you finally found a place.
Inside, I am reminded of you every time
I open my hand, to hold something more.

I live in a small room, overlooking the sea.
You are silent, breathing.
heaving my chest up and down, like the sound of solemn waves.
There is fear in me, that you’ve been in my lungs for so long
If I were to remove you, I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

I’ve lived so silent while you were there.
almost anxious of the sound of my own voice, rising up to
puncture the air, send sounds to bring you tumbling down
like the walls around my heart you crashed into,

I live in a big house, every window
Every door, is open.
People flood in
But so does the cold.
Trapping you inside of me, stinging my eyes
My throat is freezing, flooded with salt.
I can't speak so much to scream.

they think we die loudly, screaming and in protest,
in fact we die with our eyes ******* shut, so close to freedom
but afraid to see it.
"As Papa said, 'write drunk, edit sober.'"
Your Papa also said
"It is enough to live on the sea and **** our true brothers."
Jun 2014 · 487
Maybe if I Write About it
Jane Doe Jun 2014
Maybe if I write about it, it’ll go away.
Maybe if I spill my guts to a room of strangers I will no longer feel the danger
Maybe, just perhaps. If I **** in my stomach for long enough, it will leave me alone.
If you put a frog in boiling water they will jump out, if you put a girl in a corset she will shout that it’s too small! It won’t hold all of me and why would I want it to?
You see, cooking girls is a lot like cooking frogs, you’ve got to promise them cold water on a hot day, and you’ve got to promise that you’ll accept them even if they’re gay. If their legs are hairy, if their thighs are knee deep in celluloid you’ve got to insist that you can sit with them at the dinner table and while you’re slowly cranking up the hot water dial, you’ve got to let them believe that they’re not on trial, and when the water gets warmer so slowly that they can’t feel it until it’s too late.
You’ve got to create an atmosphere for deceit so when you hand them the revolver, it’s because they were the first ones to reach.
It’ll start with her friends, they’ll make comments about her plate size, or they’ll joke that they themselves have an “eating disorder” Only that they’ll, eat dis-order and dis-order and she’ll laugh and choke down another serving, while trying to order the thoughts in her mind, trying to find a way to respond to the obvious oddities of her social standings and trying not to be standing too close to the bomb when it drops, and when it goes off she’ll offer her baby fat as a portion of the poison that put her in this position in the first place.
So yeah, maybe if I write about it it’ll go away, maybe if I open my lungs like she opens her throat and purge the thoughts I’ve got squished into size two jeans that seem like they fit, I’ve got a bit of a chance that I can stand against the enemy. Which in the end is me, mind you, my mind fighting against the trails that I’ve hidden behind, maybe my self-esteem is lower than they would have it seem, and maybe I make the mistake of seeming like I’ve got it together when in reality I’m just living in the shadows of rehabilitation and I’ve been debating with the part of me which is still holding the revolver, that maybe I’m not over it and there’s a good chance I’ll never be, which might be okay but could also cost me my life.
Who knows though, maybe if I write about it, it’ll go away, maybe if I tell people what I’m going through it’ll be harder to relapse maybe I can just collapse on the notion that I’m notoriously negative and critically cynical about myself which means I deserve to skip desert, maybe it’s called EDNOS because my eating disorder knows which buttons to push when, and which messages to send, like you look like a whale when you sit down, your thighs don’t touch the hold onto each other in desperation, the amount you put into your stomach can feed a small nation, maybe if you write about it it’ll go away? Do you think dispelling words onto a blank is the only personification I crave? Do you think I’m small enough to be crushed? Can’t you see that I can’t be killed?
All I know is that I can’t keep this inside, I can’t hide from the demons in my mind anymore, I’ve let them fester there too long, I’ve got layers of lies making for a disguise with too many holes to hold anything but *******, I’ve got to let some of it out, I can’t keep living like this, I can’t keep lying to myself, I have to put this part of my life on the self. I don’t know if this will help. I just know I need to let it out.
Jun 2014 · 1.5k
Cereal Killer.
Jane Doe Jun 2014
Snap, crackle, pop, *******, maybe one day our way of life will match up, maybe someday you’ll shake the sad and sick way you sound with your face buried in the ground, snap crackle and pop, snap, crackle and pop.
Snap, like snap dragon, like fire breathing flower beating pollen from bee stings, letting you insert your syringe in, snap, my neck to keep me stagnate, snap your tongue as I walk but, cackle and cat call, call me something derogative, like *****, snap, my negotiative nature has me nearly kneeling on my knees screaming at the stars, snap, because I’m snapping out of this phase, faking it until I’ve made it am I manly enough yet? Binding my breast, walking with my legs apart holding inside the pains of a broken heart until it leaks from my pores, shorter hair and it’ll seem like I don’t have a care in the world, snap crackle pop *******, maybe one day your say won’t matter, maybe someday I’ll shake off the need to impress you when all you’ve done is oppress me. Impressively I’m openly opinionated still, despite your
Crackle, like cackle, like a catapult of insults, like injury that has no bruises, like being lost and found and the sound of your voice, is crackling. Caressing my nape with knives, making the demons inside harder and harder to hide from when they hide inside your hide, your skin, which you stick to me like crackle, snap crackle pop *******, maybe one day your opinions will be shattered by someone who’s louder. Maybe someday someone will smother your power. Maybe someday your soap box will be lit on fire. Snap, crackle, pop.
Pop, like gun shots, like self-entitled macho misters, mysteriously gliding into plain sight, entitling themselves heros where the title terrorist is more fitting, letting themselves let loose and losing themselves in the blood bath created by a society which values machismo over women saying “no” pop, like people placing bets on how many lip stick rings they can get around their *****, pop, like men making markers holding us down with words which pop our ear drums and drum us silent, like silently held hand guns hidden in plain sight, like women lined up to be killed where men should be lined up to learn, where girls are hurled under the bus because our skirts are too short and our voices too shrill, where we **** ambition that grows like snap, like a snap dragon, a fire breathing flower found beautiful but dangerous, like crackle, the cackle of your cat calls and like pop, like gun shots sounding into the streets, like the silence of the women we never knew we needed to heed. Snap, crackle, pop. Stop, holding your tongue and stay your hand, take a silent stand.
Snap crackle and pop *******, because today I can’t afford to let your words matter.
Jun 2014 · 935
Blood moon.
Jane Doe Jun 2014
The sun rose with your name dripping from her lips this morning
every inch of myself itched with the burning imprint of your fingertips.
and with every moment your teeth scraped my hips.
My cries were a symphony that clashed with symbols of my satisfaction.
Our mumbled blessings cursed with the morning light.
Our memories washed by the whiskey of the previous night.
in this haze I can’t think
Of the difference between wrong and right.
4:00 am has never shone so bright.
and you and I aren’t bound for life.
I doubt we’re even bound for tonight.
But she and I and I and you
have stuck through tougher things,
with bound hands and stick like glue.
but if you lose yourself.
I will find you, underneath a blood moon.
Apr 2014 · 496
Plan Bee
Jane Doe Apr 2014
Bumble bees aren’t built to fly. But that doesn’t mean she won’t. It has been scientifically proven that the wing span of the average one is too small to hold up its body mass, but that doesn’t mean they don’t, I like to imagine that every time her little wings manage to miraculously pick herself off the ground just high enough to hover about the flowers, she smiles triumphantly because she is doing something that everyone has ever told her was completely impossible to do,
I like to think this because it’s how I feel whenever I open my mind to talk to you.
Whenever I do, my strong words come out in mumbles, they tumble forth like crashing waves and the saving grace that’s saving me is the fact that you’ve held on this long already.
When I lift my lips to caress your palms, lay them flat against my cheek so the heat keeps moving between us can catch me off guard. When you hold my hand and disband the negative thoughts clouding my better judgement. I like to think that the width of my hips has only ever been measured by milestone makers, that the bones in my spine are the rocks we will walk on, that the spaces between my fingers had only ever been held by placeholders, that the broken hearts that felt like boulders were never louder than your soft voice whispering how beautiful I am in my ear, just soft enough for my demons to hear, and whenever you draw me near I like to think that it’s more so because I’m another warm body than the idea that you could find solace in the shape of my thoughts.
There are insects living undetected in the un-dissected regions of the legions of my organs. Butterflies with razor blade wings and they sting the sides of my diaphragm spiders biting the inside of my cheeks turning them fusica, I can’t write this poem.
I thought I would be able to pen exactly what it is that I want to say to you when the light hits your eyes and turns their emerald light blue, I overestimated my vocabulary and it’s twisty turny ways, I thought I could think of all that I wanted to say but I can’t.
Not because I haven’t been trying, I’d be lying if I said that I don’t think of a new way to describe your beauty every day, a new metaphor there was no doubt a Greek word for, it’s true that every inch of my mind burns with curiosity when you’re close to me. It’s just that I can’t write this poem…
I can’t capture you with these hands, they’d shake and snap you, I can’t carry you with these arms they are too small and they’d break too. I can’t carve you out of marble and marvel at my masterpiece because honestly the piece of mastery is how and why out of all the women in the world you would have chosen me! I can’t write this poem. I can’t blame the color of my cheek on the spiders in my veins, I can’t conjugate a verb to make sure it’s not only heard but understood. To understand my feelings towards you I have to try and understand you.
I can’t write this poem, like bumble bees aren’t built to fly, I can’t form a structure around the constant beat of my heart when it palpitates whenever we’re apart.
I can kiss you.
I can’t write this poem and offer you the better parts of me. I cannot be the strong and lonely bumble bee. I can base my laughter on the crinkled corners of your eyes, I can surround my words around the good deeds you’ve done, I can become undone under your patient and practiced thumb. I cannot write this poem, but I can’t stay silent. I cannot simply shy from the way your eyes pierce my shield, I can muster up the strength to stretch out my tiny wings and sing, I cannot write this poem, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.
Apr 2014 · 365
This much I know is True.
Jane Doe Apr 2014
This much I know is true.
It’s 10 am on April the 13th 2014.
Despite the ruckus caused by me packaging my books up my roommate is still fast asleep.
I woke up this morning with a sore throat and a rage that boiled like the water I use to make my coffee.
I pretended to talk to you this morning, like I’ve done before, on mornings when the sun didn’t quite rise fast enough, and my eternal clock is stuck on the look on your face when you told me to leave.
“It’ll be hard for you to come back”
I heaved a slow breath from my lungs and told you that I was angry at your inability to talk about the elephant in the room.
“When the doors are locked, and you don’t have a key”
The way I see it, the locks we rusted and you didn’t really want to keep me away.
That being said:
I’m not in love with you.
This much I know is true,
It’s 10:15 am on April the 13th 2014.
I’m wondering if I’m actually going to send this to you, or just let you slide out of my life.
Like I had wanted her to do the first time you kissed me. But I wanted you to miss me, not the physical closeness, of course that was also nice, but just the way my smile widens my eyes, or the bashful way I play around the diabolical sin were in the middle of committing.  
Not my soul, but the sound of my voice, not my heart, but the way it beats.
My roommate just woke up, it’s weird because I’ve started to put my life back into boxes, I still feel like I live in a fox hole, faithless. There is no god, I re-realize this fact when a book of poetry slips from my hand and lands on my foot, and I curse myself and continue taking things of the shelf.
I missed you, maybe the bitterness is just that I wanted you to miss me too.
Not because I’m your lover, but because I’m your friend.
Also, the *** was really good and I’d be kind of sad if that had to end.
This much I know is true.
Please believe me, I’m not in love with you.
It’s 10:30 am on April 13th 2014
I’m hungry and I want to get something to eat, this is the last verse and I can’t beat myself up about the things I wrote, I choked on my on imagination and when it finally passed and I could breathe I assumed it was best for me to let it be, and because it’s exam week and the stress has made me weak, I didn’t fight it, I thought that you had gotten bored with me and moved on, I thought it  was kind of ironic that it had taken this long. That was a joke, self-deprecation, when I reread the poem I realized it was a lie.
Like all my poems are, stretching truths over spools of thread to weave around the language I’ve been given. Stumbling across synonyms and subjects, pulling inspirations from different interpretations and sometimes that comes off too strong, but know all along I meant it when I said.
If I get to close I’ll leave, I need you to trust that that is
as much as I know to be true.
Apr 2014 · 3.3k
Consent is sexy
Jane Doe Apr 2014
They used to call me the shoe less poet, because even though my mind was never quite in one place, my thoughts always knew where to fall, and I walked with a steady pace. When I called someone’s bluff they didn’t stuff around and after all was said and done. She had come undone and I was the only one there to listen, so with burdened hearts and heavy lids, she bid me welcome into her bed. I kissed her ripped skin raw, and she saw just how gentle another human being could be but she didn’t see how I could possibly respect her if she said no, because a certain time ago a wolf in hot boys clothing had stolen into her heart, but not before ripping her apart.
He had said, consent is ****.
She was 17 with her heart in her chest and just trying to do her best with the subject of objectification and recommendations from her friends to go for it, when he rounded the corner and saw her and saw that what she was was beautiful.
only two points pretty and three points potential love partner, he’s heard stories of what she’s done and how with a certain touch she comes undone, she came undone under his thumb and now the thing is he doesn’t even know what he’s done, but instead he’s said.
Consent, is ****.
So get on your knees, she doesn’t need another reason to heed her mothers warnings that boys will be boys who will beg and plead and lie, but she’s still trying to come terms with idea that she might actually be worth a second glance, another chance, a single dance. He was never supposed to be anything more than a single pleasure, but he put pressure on her bleeding parts and now part of her feels inclined to decide to let him lie down beside her and hide from the monsters inside.
He said. Consent is ****.
Like her ***** is a wave he can ride until the tide of her mind comes to terms with the lies he’s presented her with. ****, like maybe if you stopped to check, when her thighs opened it was because of his vice grip, when his lips met with hers it wasn’t with love, but lust and he must have been drunk because surely a sober man would know better than to force a 17 year old girl to hurl as he shoved himself inside her, hiding his guilt with the lilt and the tilt of his head and his killer line, “consent is ****.” Baby, it might be, baby it can’t be. Because she’s trying to say no but it’s hard to mutter words when his face is curled into every positive memory about this place, when she has to drink her weight in *** to over come the memories of a misshapen youth, you can bet shes begun to become undone, but it’s not in the right light, her brown hair doesn’t shine in the same way that she has in past and the last thing on her mind was the way you grasped her behind and told her that.
Consent is ****.
Like, maybe if she just said yes she could stop bleeding better yet, make a bet that basically says that she’s useless without his hand to help her stand, perhaps if she just said yes and moaned a little louder it would block out the bleeding passage of herself that is begging and pleading and trying to lead herself to show her true colors, which is red. The shade of shame spread on her bed spread. So when I kiss her wounds and slowly wound her around my wrists, I have to take things slow so that I can’t hurt her and puncture her soul because she’s been mangled tangled around lies and this mistruth that was presented to her when you said.
“Consent. Is. ****.”
trigger warning, ****
Apr 2014 · 1.2k
Blood moon.
Jane Doe Apr 2014
The sun rose with your name dripping from her lips this morning
every inch of myself itched with the burning imprint of your fingertips.
and with every moment your teeth scraped my hips.
My cries were a symphony that clashed with symbols of my satisfaction.
Our mumbled blessings cursed with the morning light.
Our memories washed by the whiskey of the previous night.
in this haze I can’t think
Of the difference between wrong and right.
4:00 am has never shone so bright.
and you and I aren’t bound for life.
I doubt we’re even bound for tonight.
But she and I and I and you
have stuck through tougher things,
with bound hands and stick like glue.
but if you lose yourself.
I will find you, underneath a blood moon.
Apr 2014 · 462
Shower me.
Jane Doe Apr 2014
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I know that that’s a really messed up thing to say because I’ve been spending all of my time trying to convince myself that I’m completely gay and, okay that’s kind of ******* because it’s not like there’s anything wrong with thinking about having *** with you…
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today and I know that’s a really ****** up thing to say because as the hot water was running down my spine I realized how good our fingers feel intertwined. Dear Thomas, I thought about you while- I thought. I think about you a lot.
I think that I am a gypse in your body and in your head, like I’ve hibernated in your mind all winter but I’ve crept out of your aorta valve to find myself at your centre and beating at your ribcage, sleeping with the spirits you’ve swallowed, nestled into your lymphoid, dreaming about the expanse of your stance like it’s the void.
I think about the way your skin tastes with the water after another shared shower.
I think about your gentle hold and your half-hearted snickers.
I think about the advice you’ve given me, and how I’d reply with it times twice: Breathe.
Dear Thomas: I thought that you and I make a pretty good pair, and I know that’s just kind of out of the blue but you know that old saying “I am rubber and you are glue, all that you say bounces off of me and sticks to you,” but to be honest I think that we’ve got more things in common than anyone knew so how about I just stick myself against you?
Dear Thomas: I must admit though, lately you’ve been kind of distant and I’m afraid of something that might be growing in my chest, I detest the beating but I can’t stop it enough to rest, I know most of it is  because we’re both so completely stressed, but I think it would be best if we found common ground it would ground us both in this large aray of static sound, but before I get a head of myself let my mind wander out in the open where I can focus on your body and how it moves between my thighs. I think, I think I like this wild ride.
Dear Thomas: You challenged me to write something that tasted like mahogany, and wouldn’t you know that I’m searching for the metaphors that capture our hearts in syncopation, but the trepidation beneath my feet and the heat coming from your tired eyes lie to me about your circumstance. Just by chance I might find a way to make you laugh, it might be just once, I’ll cherish every second that it fleets across your face, undoubtly like mace my awkward words will trip you into cruelty once again, send me to your room again Thomas, let us be there together. I can’t promise you forever, no I can’t even promise today, but I don’t think you want anything more than this moment of mutual laughter on your bedroom floor.
Dear Thomas: can you smell the old books in the imagery I’ve conjured? Can you conduct a survey about the respectable spans of time it takes for me to take my mind off you and find an alternative subject, when I’d rather be subjected to your passion than anything else, Thomas, can you hear the cracking of my spine when I finally let myself relax. Dear Thomas, this isn’t supposed to be anything but the musings of your mistress, but I did miss this, Thomas, being stuck in the hit and miss that is... this, whatever this… is.
I think about the way your voice sounded when you said “I’m running out of time and gin.” And I can’t begin to mention how it felt to watch you melt beneath me non the less, the stress that washes from your face, and Thomas the point of this is that life is ultimately pointless, so let’s get undressed and share in the sweetness of each-others sweat.
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I’ve got to say, your kisses only taste bitter if the bite marks don’t linger.
Apr 2014 · 4.1k
Stressed.
Jane Doe Apr 2014
Do not. Think. About. Him.
I’m really ******* stressed, he says get dressed to cover the scars of the lies they’ve placed upon your head with sounds of the still screaming dead.
I’m really ******* stressed, because I have a million things to do and a million and one reasons to stop thinking about you.
Do. Not. Think. About. Him.
Your breath still lingers on my skin, and I can still feel you within me.
Do not think about him.
Your gentle fingers pulling at my hair and I’m here alone in this small town and I’m about to drown in the memory of your hands.
I’ve got to study, I’ve got to write, I’ve got to type and try to figure out the differences in my head between wrong and right.
Do not think about him.
I’ve drunken too many shots to fire anything close to fire into your iced over veins
I am trying to restrain myself from sounding too much like a sap, but perhaps there’s room enough in your heart for two beside me, besides her, beside you.
I’m likely to linger in this this place for too long. I’m more than likely going to hold you down with my tongue and torture you until you give in.
Do not think about him.
he’s out of your league, he can’t see your bones but he can feel them between you two.
I’ve still found myself in cased in chaos and caring too much about what you think, when obviously you don’t.
Because if you did you’d have stayed, if you did you wouldn’t have left me if you did I wouldn’t be standing so close to the edge because you wouldn’t have mapped out a way for me to get to it, you wouldn’t have plugged the location into my GPS and locked the doors on my car, no if you cared you wouldn’t have asked me so quickly to get dressed, ******* I’m stressed and I can’t win..
Do not think about him.
you’ve become a mantra, a saying to keep myself warm, you’ve become the warning sign that carries with it nothing but harm, because like previously stated you’ve sedated me into driving myself of a cliff and  my unconscious body can’t swim.
Do. Not. Think. About. Him
They say I write about myself too much, they don’t know that you’re my crutch. They’re right, I’m willing to try and branch out and stick myself to the source of my issues but of course I know what that entails and the extra miles between your heart and mine have been tearing me apart, but if we had this discourse it would be about discording and according to you I’d be getting too close for comfort, and I’m still losing myself in the opportunity of something more and I can’t hold myself up with these hands . I can’t stand the idea for loosing you and unwinding but I suppose that’s what it’s come to hasn’t it?
I’m all over the place at this point, I could spout out more rhymes but honestly, you were right when you said you were running out of “time and gin,” like it’s a big thing, like it’s more important for me to be there than for me to be thin, and the sin that keeps us together has been the same since the start, and the extra miles between your heart and mine is what’s keeping me together, you’re keeping me together. You’re tearing me apart.
I started with a bad deed, and now I’ve got about nine, I can’t count the amount of times I’ve tried to stop myself from tying off the loss ends and starting again, and it’s about time I stand up for myself it’s about time I start to think things through. The only things that are separating us, is me and I and you.
Hold on to me for another minute, hold on to me for another day, I can’t promise you forever because nothing good ever stays. I can’t reach you while you’re falling, but if it helps I’m falling too.
The only difference is the traps I’m not falling for, mainly the ones set by you.
Mar 2014 · 469
I'm sorry (Get out now)
Jane Doe Mar 2014
When I tried to write you into a poem, I found that I already had, you snuck into the crevices of my smile, you spent your spare time mining your way into my heart and now that the bomb we planted there has gone off I’m no closer to finding closure than I was three weeks ago and I guess that just goes to show that when push comes to shove I’d rather pull then become a push over, I’m not even close to being over you, and the next morning once I had a sober view on things I realized you had done the right thing in letting me go, so now I’m letting you know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Because I let you win, Because I let you in, Because I let my sin control my actions.
I’m sorry
Because of the impact of my folly
Because of the way you tried to stop me
Because of the choices I made
And the decision to stay
I’m sorry
Because I want to be your friend because I rendered myself weaker than I am because I tried to be someone I’m not because I’m too frightened to let this end because I’m bitter without a soul to defend because I lied and tried to get closer to you because I put my needs above yours, I’m making batman references to my friend I said you’re the boyfriend I deserve but not the one I need right now, so I’ll let you go because I can take it but I’m not sure I can make it up to you
I’m sorry.
Because you sank into my skin when I met you, placed your hand over my heart and dug deeper.
Now you're in my bones.
taking up space between my rusty joints
and splintered cartridge.
I could take a scalpel
and cut you out, bleed you out like bad
humors.
if you've rested between my porcelain femurs
does that make you part of me?
Or a tumor.    
I’m sorry
Because I had to have my way
I mean what else can I say?
I’m sorry.
Now this is the part of the poem where you interject, where you tell me that maybe we were each other’s biggest mistakes but at least we were living and together and at least the beast inside of us were shared by each other and at least things never got as bad as they could have.
Here is where you tell me that the key is hidden under the mat, and that if the doors are ever locked all I need to do is knock, here is where you chase the nervous anxiety I have away with a reassuring hug, but you won’t do that will you? You’re done with my chapter in your life, you’ve switched the stitching and you’ve stopped mixing business with pleasure and I’m not needed anymore, so let me change the title of this poem to something with a little bit more of a ring to it, so I can sing it to you until you can’t block it out.
I’m sorry, sorry that I trusted you, sorry that I thought you were different, that I thought you were a bigger person, I’m sorry that I assumed you respected me while you degraded my state of mind, I’m sorry that I thought that you were actually kind. That you wanted a piece of my mind and not just my body. I’m sorry I thought we could be friends.

The poems I wrote for you have scribbled out your name, the cracks in my heart a mortared so I can continue beating this point home, and I’m not alone. So don’t feel sorry for me, don’t be that guy who made my cry and then tries to get back inside. It’s not happening.
I’ve burnt the bridges between us, and in the end. The crevices of my smile hide only my own happiness, I am focusing on myself and the strength within my own mind, so go find someone else to tidy your mess. You can keep your fox hole, I’m happy being faithless.
Part two of "It takes two to tango."
Jane Doe Mar 2014
my skin still smells
you linger
longer than I could have thought
perhaps, I think you thought I was something special.
"You really are beautiful."
Darling, there are demons in my spine, leaking fluids into my brain.
and I'm insane.
So don't stand so close to my flame.
Feb 2014 · 505
Bones
Jane Doe Feb 2014
you sank into my skin when I met you, placed your hand over my heart and dug deeper.
Now you're in my bones.
taking up space between my rusty joints
and splintered cartridge.
I could take a scalpel
and cut you out, bleed you out like bad
humors.
if you've rested between my porcelain femurs
does that make you part of me?
Or a tumor.
Jane Doe Jan 2014
Dear insert your name here.
I can hear you in his whispers; I feel your memory in his pulse when it beats against mine. Dear insert your name here; I have seen the private parts of your smile in his old photos and your heart break in the edges of his glare. I have felt your longing in his silent touch.
Dear, insert your name here, you may be nameless to me but I can see your tortured past whenever he refuses to tell another person his name. You have wrapped yourself so tightly next to his heart, in the cavities of his mouth I can still hear you screaming.
Dear. Clarice, please… I’d like to know.
Please tell me how you let up and let him go?
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