Do people really get kissed
like characters do in movies and books?
Pushed up against a wall
Hot breath and lust clenched fingers, or
In an airport in front of security
Teary eyes and tight hugs
Soft and slow and
Full of want and love.
Do they happen?
Or have I just been in
the wrong place my entire life?
And if these kisses do exist,
Why haven't I experienced
anything remotely close to that
Sweet perfection?
Why have all of my kisses been
so hasty and ugly and well,
completely ******?
And who are these guys,
That I have let kiss me,
Who do they think they are?
That they can kiss me like that,
And not even care?
All I get are senseless, strung out lips
looking for another score.
What I want,
Need actually,
Are kisses that make me forget
what i'm thinking
what day it is
what's going on around me,
Kisses that remind me of campfires
and old movies, and rainy summers
filled with lightning bugs and
long walks in sunflower fields.
I want to kiss someone and
feel like I'm back in my microscopic town
catching lady bugs, lying in tall grass
watching the setting sun and feeling a
warm breeze wash over my skin and
seeing it dance with the trees and birds.
I want someone to kiss me, and
make me feel free and whimsical,
Like walking among the sunflowers,
not knowing where they end,
not caring if they don't
because it's beautiful.
I want to be kissed
like the world is ending
like I am the most important thing
and if they don't kiss me
then nothing will ever matter again.
If it's out there,
and god do I hope it is,
I will look for it.
I will find it.
I will.

I lay awake motionless
hoping, praying for answers
Answers that should maybe be kept locked away
protecting what is already a broken heart
A broken girl

I have this burning hunger
to discover that key to unlock the truth
I lay with nothing but empty hands
and a head that holds a million questions

A voice without freedom
the one buried inside screams to get out
begging to be heard
I feel trapped
suffocated by the unknown

I remain laying motionless in my bed
a bed of a thousand secrets
Tears fall effortlessly down my cheeks
forever sinking into my pillow of tears
My pillow of fears

There are things I think about doing with you,
like folding laundry with the windows open
and hearing the crickets chirp outside.
Like listening to the turning ceiling fan slowly
make its way around itself,
while we dance and make our way
around each other in the center of the room.
And you stumble slightly on the edge of the rug
that always rolled up a little bit,
but I am there to catch you.
I know you tried every day to fix that corner,
but you need not worry.
I will always be there to catch you.
I know you try every day to not crumble
and shatter into thousands of little pieces.
I know you’re scared,
but you need not worry.
I will always be there to catch you.

Ernest Hemingway once said
"Write drunk; edit sober."
But to hell with that,
I'll give you my worst.
I'll give you all the pieces
when my heart decides it's too much
or too little
and my mind forgets the difference.
I swear I'll sink right through the floorboards
if you don't find someway to fill the spaces.
You are the sand clenched in my
scraped up palms,
sticking to the worst parts of me;
the ones that everyone else finds
too messy,
too broken,
too tired,
too empty.
You find someway to keep my broken limbs
moving forward, even when I have nothing left.
I have nothing left.
There is nothing left.
And I've checked this over a thousand times
to make sure every letter is in its proper place.
It must be perfect,
even if I'm not.
Because even if I give you my worst,
you always deserve more than my best.

I’m falling desperately for pieces of you,
and all of you at the same time.
I know I’ve stumbled in so deep,
but there’s still more for me to find.
If you’d like you can call me a fool,
and I’ll be as foolish as they come,
but that still won’t explain how
your eyes make me go numb.
I’m keeping every little bit,
because I can’t bear
to let it go.
The subtle curve your soft lips make
when they hear me say your name,
and the freckle on your collarbone,
your right, my left.
I think of how I feel so much more than skin
when you simply brush against me.
Your hand in mine.
My left, your right.
This isn’t a poem,
it’s a 3 am conversation on your basement couch
and a quiet night spent on the bench next to the lake.
I can never write poems about you,
because it’s impossible to write a poem
about poetry itself.