Julia Plante

Julia Plante Oct 2017

sleeping with a broken heart (a haiku)

arms wrapped around me
fusing me back together
please don't wake me up

Julia Plante Oct 2017

grace, holy (a haiku)

atlantic sea eyes
sunrise personality
nothing less than warm

Julia Plante Oct 2017

emma, holy (a haiku)

platonic lover
dancing on a thursday night
always tattooed on my hip

Julia Plante Oct 2017

six (a slam poem)

when i was in high school,
i dreamed of the day that i would be kissed.
not by you,
(definitely not you)
but walking down the boulevard,
(probably)
sunset and city behind us,
(i hope)
and this unknown person,
(able to look past my flaws)
would tilt up my chin
and make me feel like i wasn't inept with romance.

for context,
my mother has always assumed
that i've worn a clothing size up
from what i actually did.
i've always stared at myself in the mirror
and wondered why
all of my love had turned to cellulite.

in high school,
i had seen all of my friends
going to restaurants,
fingers intertwined,
grinning.
they had been chosen
to receive the love.
i had accepted
that my body
was not a temple
to pray to.

given this context,
i had not imagined
that my first kiss
would be blackout drunk,
(cinco de mayo)
in the back of a closet,
(not even alone)
in the dark
(you couldn't even see my chin to tilt it up)
(but you did anyway).

you showed me that my body
could be loved
and seven months later
i can still feel your arms wrapped around it.

it would benefit me
to stop feeling
this electricity in my chest.
cross out your name in my journals,
drop everything and drive
until your name
can't reach me anymore.

but every time i try
the ropes of your laugh
latch to my ankles.

i love you so much
that i can feel my ribs crack
under the pressure
of my ever-expanding heart.

i can tell you that
your favorite color is green
and you're allergic to apples.
you love The Strokes
and you hate being barefoot
and you haven't talked to your dad in ten years.

we're polar opposites
and yet i am magnetized to you.

you are the shark tattoo
etched onto my ribs,
because you may **** nine people every year,
but i am not afraid of your bite.

maybe
(definitely)
i'm ******* crazy.

but i'm crazy for you,
hoping that one day
(soon)
we just might trip
into love again.

Julia Plante Sep 2017

things i wish i could yell to you

i never stopped loving your sunset eyes.
2. your laugh makes flowers grow in my chest,
can you smell them?
3. i worry about you.
4. i wish i could see your insides,
even though you're self-conscious of your organs.
5. your teeth are carved of marble,
6. and i might be obsessive,
7. but sometimes, your smile gives me a sunburn.
8. i wish that i could be closer to you, always.
9. i can't stop wearing the sweater to bed that reminds me of you,
10. and i wake up sweating,
11. but it's better than opening my eyes to see your ghost dissipating next to me.
12. i think
13. (i know)
14. that you don't feel seeds sprouting in your ribs when i am close.
15. not anymore.
16. you're too far,
17. and no matter how much i pace, i can't reach you.
18. i carry you on my shoulders
19. but i can feel you tumble,
20. onto the ground, willingly.
21. i think too much of you,
22. too highly,
23. and too often.
24. when i'm drunk and stumbling, i hope to feel your hand on my back.
25. you are sunlight emanating from the clouds,
26. but you are fading from me.
27. please come back.
28. i hate the heavenly chisel that shaped your bones.
29. i daydream about you in traffic,
30. and at work,
31. and in passing.
32. i'm so sorry,
33. i love you.

Julia Plante Aug 2017

pieces

you are the smell of sunflower oil
for frying chips;
my coworker's perfume.

your warmth is winter.
off-white walls,
snow-covered tar,
close together,
the windows open,
the fan oscillating.

"you'll be around later, right?"
you questioned as i crept out of bed,
headed to work.
i nodded,
you grinned,
fell asleep again,
this time alone.

in my memory
you are sitting.
the table in the back,
surrounded by the warmth of our friends,
guacamole in the center.

in my memory
we are near.
the futon,
treading through the snow,
trailing behind you in the hallway.

i am at your doorstep.
pacing the hallway,
heartbeat echoing,
constructing the concrete confidence
to finally just ******* kiss you,
but eventually walking back
to sleep alone.

i carry doomsday on my shoulders
and yet you have the strength
to lift it off.

five months later
and electricity still pulses through my veins
at the notion of someone breathing in my ear.

you are not here.
you are not sitting at the table in the back.
you are not sleeping next to me.

reality is jaded,
yearning that soon
my memories
and actualities
can align.

Julia Plante Aug 2017

rorschach test

i used to love the smell of gasoline.
eight years old,
suede seats,
breathing in as my mother filled the tank.

yesterday,
as i took my mother's place
eleven years later,
gasoline smells like *****.

as i inhaled,
insects buzzing akin to the fluorescent lights above,
it reeked of my lack of inhibitions.
my lack of restraint.
my inability to keep myself away from you.
and yet
i would still go out of my way
to keep the fragrance near me.

you are gasoline.
you are *****.
you are the empty svedka bottle lying on the floor.

your beautiful, beautiful liquid poison rots my ribs.
i am slowly killing myself for you
but i'll be ******
because i can't stop reeling us counting constellations
within my spinning projector mind.

there are so many reasons as to why i should stop myself.
hell,
you're the reason for the never-healing cat scratches on my forearm,
but you're an effortless mosaic of a human being.

your laughter is light.
internally you are genuine.
i can only see the flowers in your eyes
and yet they are nonetheless poisonous.

i hope that one day
i can turn your storm clouds
to warm rain.

all the better for dancing.