Qynn: Poems

Untitled

Qynn Apr 2018

Untitled

I want to have gardens on my arms
I want to carry pictures of all I have loved
and all I have lost

I want roses
and roses
and roses.

Untitled

Qynn Apr 2018

Untitled

why is it that I must wait
for your apologies to me
to be coaxed out of you
by your friends

who somehow smell
who somehow see
who somehow ******* hurting

long after the words fall from your lips

and far before the “sorry” comes?

Untitled

Qynn Aug 2017

Untitled

More than anything
I wish I had the strength
To rip my heart out
Throw it on the ground
And let it wither
And rot away to nothing.

My heart
And the amount of love I have
For you -
They have poisoned me.

They have turned me into a bitter,
Hateful,
Resentful,
Jealous person.

And I would rather my heart die
Than continue on this way.

Untitled

Qynn Jun 2017

Untitled

I stand naked in front of the mirror
and burn myself at the stake
for every imperfection,
every little thing that I hate.
If I was a better witch,
you would only see pretty.

Not this tangled mess of hair,
matted from sleepless nights.
Nor the scars on my arms,
from generations of life-gone-wrong.
Not my imperfect skin, wrinkled and flawed
from years of stress and worry -
nor the extra pounds I seem to so effortlessly gain, and wear with such shame.

Shame, the same like the tears that run down my cheeks.
All these things I hate.
These things - this body
that does not fit me
that does not satisfy.

I would sell every piece of me
just to bewitch you.

Untitled

Qynn Jun 2017

Untitled

The clock ticks on and it's easier to get by. The sun comes up, the sun goes down. So do I. But as bland and listless as these days are, they beat on. Without a care from my mother, without love from my lover. And each morning I still do manage to muster the strength to crawl up and out of bed. No matter the weight of my bones, my heart, or my head.

As much as I don't want to be, I still am. As much as I fight the human need for light and oxygen - the sun still kisses my skin. I feel every breath that I take in. I must find peace not with another - but within.

Untitled

Qynn Oct 2017

Untitled

I work hard.

I break myself for the better.

I choke on my own exhaust.

I sob on the long walk home.

I lash out intermittently, as if someone would care about my struggles.

I cry for help.

I snap at the hands that reach to touch.

Like a wounded animal.

Screaming.

Fighting.

For what?

Where is the line between fighting and dying?

Untitled

Qynn Mar 2018

Untitled

what a wonder
to be comfortable in your own skin

and my body
scarred by every sin

what a life
to scorn the skin I’m living in.

Untitled

Qynn Jul 2017

Untitled

Some days I'm okay with sitting at a desk
staring at a computer for hours on end.

Other days it's a ******* nightmare
because I have nowhere to run
when I suddenly remember how you broke
every promise you ever made.

If I could only be stronger -
shrug off the hurt
and tell myself that if I matter
so little to you,
so you should be worth nothing to me too.

Untitled

Qynn Mar 2018

Untitled

it’s been one year
i am still consistently horrified
at the thought of what could go wrong
how many broken promises must I suffer through
like shattered glass in each step
******, broken, without you?

Untitled

Qynn Feb 2018

Untitled

every day I waste away here
I entertain the glorious idea
of getting up
and walking out

Alas

I need this job
more than I need my dignity.

Untitled

Qynn Mar 2018

Untitled

these days
i look less and less into your starving
stunning
open
absent eyes

in your vacancy

it almost makes the one-day
inevitable pill
easier to swallow.

Untitled

Qynn Jun 2018

Untitled

I try too hard
and the taste I leave
on your god-given lips
is heavy,
chalky and bitter.

Untitled

Qynn Jun 2018

Untitled

despite the amounts
of sleep and sanity
I sacrifice
to ensure the extinction
of the other woman

she thrives.

like flies to putrid corpses
the threat multiplies.

you attract.

Untitled

Qynn Feb 2018

Untitled

I hear the electricity humming above me as I make my way back on the long dark road. Lampposts scarce, my way is illuminated by the irregular volumes of light pouring from the cars that pass me by. I catch glimpses of roadside carcasses in the abstract light, and through my open mouth.

The path is clear but it is jagged. My canvas shoes have gotten wet from the shallow puddles I couldn’t see.

Sometimes it is dark. It is lonely. There are no cars, carcasses, or other urban romantic ideas to keep me company in my travels.

Sometimes I get so focused, furiously typing. I end up in the middle of the street. A horn blares. My heart catches in my stomach and I correct my failed trajectory.

It is 7:43 pm on a Saturday night at the end of February and I wish you were here to walk me home.

Untitled

Qynn Apr 2018

Untitled

I know
my mother is not proud of me
when I change my hair
bejewel my face
or tell her about the newest boy.

I am my mother’s daughter,
and we have made so many of the same mistakes.

I hope
my mother is proud of me
when I get a nice job
in the tallest building in the city
wear nice clothes
and sell my soul
to become another piece
in the people’s machine.

Untitled

Qynn Jul 2018

Untitled

Red, like the river that flows between my legs every so often.

Of course, this the color I paint my nails, as if the subtle yet bold mark of femininity could make me feel any more like a woman. As if the pain in my abdomen suggests that, yes, one day I shall be worthy of the burden of bearing human life - a parasite within, a martyr without.

Such gifts these are. Never asked for, so oft granted, regardless of prayers for fragile offspring.

We gasp at the guarantee of torn womanhood. We sigh at the kick inside.
We are women - strong, unyielding beasts of the northern stars. We bleed ourselves dry in hopes that we may find our way back home - our blood ever thicker than any sweat or tear could dream to be.

The red of our bodies shimmers bright beneath the moon.

The perfect pathway from mother
to daughter
to mother.

virginal hope

Qynn Dec 2013

virginal hope

If only I had known you
Before I knew him.
If only I had known your skin
Maybe things wouldn't be this way,
I would not owe to life
Such bitter debt.

We could live together somewhere
In the city - you and I
Singers and painters and names
Not yet written down in the book of life
For such a life would we have to live!

We'd be those silly romantics -
The kind you see in sappy indie films
And the kind that people pluck guitar strings to.
The ones whose faces ache from smiling,
Whose lips and eyes are chapped by love.

Instead our lives are less saturated with love
Then they should be.
Hundreds upon hundreds of miles
Taking our breath away
With each and every word.

Breathlessly sleeping,
And endlessly awake.
I am so tired, I am so tired.

If only I could keep my mouth shut.
Keep my heart shut.
If only I had waited.
If only I had waited for you.

Whore

Qynn Nov 2013

*****

I wanted to make music
And I wanted to be a star
I wanted to be so far away from who you are
Dirtied by the masses
And scarred

Bitter taste
Plastic smile
Lead heart

Now I paint my face
To take off my skin
And bare the ***** within.

will it rain tomorrow?

Qynn Jan 2014

will it rain tomorrow?

Life is short. It is fast and unforgiving.
And in the time that we are given
- the time we are allotted to spend here on this planet -
we don't ask nearly enough questions.

No, not "who where why when how".

Questions that matter.

Will it rain tomorrow?
What's your name?
The first two things I said to your face.

We were younger then, and I didn't know that in a month's time
I would be asking you much more important things.

Like your favourite colour.
The songs that lift your spirits.
If I could be someone, anyone, to you.

And now.
We are where we are.
You have become to much more to me than I had ever dreamed,
and, as you had told me, time and time again, I to you.

Life is short, so I want you to know that I love you.
I love you more than "I love you" could ever say.

Life is fast, and I want to make these memories
-however virtual and electronic they may be -
last.

And life, above all, is unforgiving.
I will never be able to tell you what I want you to know.

I'm not so sure anymore that I will do anything worthwhile with the time I am given.
After all...
What kind of time would I be spending without you?

Sort of prose. Read-aloud: https://soundcloud.com/qynnv/will-it-rain-tomorrow-poetry

words

Qynn Jun 2017

words

So much writing.
So many words.
Enough to make my fingers burn.

I would set these sheets on fire
If it meant I could get you
To look at me
Hungry
And with desire.

work

Qynn Jul 2017

work

When I hear the office women,
dressed up so pretty in their nice clothes
say that they are having a bad day -
I scowl.

Have you been crying quietly
at your desk
all day
too?

Do you mourn for the family that abandoned you?

Do you long for a safe space, a place to go to, to call home?

Has your lover forgotten how to love you?

Have you lost your peace -
Have you ever known peace -

Or, like me
are you conveniently
forgettable
expendable
and very much,
mostly unwanted?

You bury me

Qynn Oct 2013

You bury me

You bury me
Beneath a mountain of bones
Your skeletons, tired of closets
Ripping the doors open
Longing to be free

And here I sit
Sipping silently
My blood and rage boiled over
In my heart, heavy with such woe
I will never be what you want
I will never be her, though

Crimson.
Ivory.
Charcoal.

Let me rip her apart for you
Let me tear her apart, my love
You want to know her every angle
Let me splinter her bones
May I?

Crimson.
Ivory.
Charcoal.

Let me cry to you of my failures
Let me sing to you of my hopes
You want me to know I'm not alone
Let me shred myself at the core
May I?

Crimson.
Ivory.
Charcoal.

You bury me.

— The End —