I just started a load of laundry
In hopes that it will wash away
The discomfort around expression
From my identity.
I imagine little people
As they run up and down
My pant legs
My shirt sleeves
My bra straps
Steadily scrubbing the internal
Abuse from the fabric.
They peel off the fine layers
Of self hatred and grime
Only to leave behind a shell
For my body to fill once more.
And, with no doubt,
I will climb from bed tomorrow
To don these scraps and
They will become one with me again.
My self doubt
and insecurities will
Stain my shirt pits
and my pant cuffs.
The devil raging inside me will,
More than likely,
***** my underwear
Leaving me in my own filth
Until I find time again
To do the laundry.
Fill my lungs with flowers
I'm not used to coughing
but I'd gladly produce for you the seeds
So that you may see.
You can plant them in your
garden of regrets and
I'll keep a few for my own.
Who would have known?
Somethings perceived as good
in reality they were weeds
crawling up my throat.
Perhaps my little garden is comprised
of dandelions and dayflowers and
other things too small
for human adoration.
Maybe I am too too small.
Pluck the petals from my hair,
count and see-
Undoubtedly, she loves me.
There is an imprint of a frog on my back
From a poem by Mary Oliver.
It is sticky sweat oozing down my spine,
Leaking into the small of my back
Screaming, "You do not have to be good."
My own skin whispers back,
"But don't I?" and sears the grime.
I don't know what to do with my own badness.
Punishment for my "sins" seems necessary,
But so does radical acceptance.
All I can do is close my eyes,
Hoping for a better tomorrow where
My brain requires less dopamine
And more compassion.
Slowly I will rise from the grave I dig once a night.
I will claw my way out by my fingers
And into the light.
Shame that no one will be near
To see the resurrection.
Heartbeats are not meant to be regular.
They're meant to sputter, wet and dark,
Underneath too many layers of skin.
When broken they must be robotic,
Rhythmic, monosyllabic and
When loved, they must pulse against
The lips of your lover at the neck.
Hearts were never meant to be
But rather they exist to be heard
Through your shirt and skin
And commitment issues
And to be felt in moments draped
In fear and strength.
But here we stand, you with your
And silly me, with the taste of comfort
Once again on my lips and
The smell of you in my messy hair,
My own heart reminded of the past.
Hellacious men roam these walls
Even once the barmaid gets them off
Reason with yourself a little, sweetheart.
At it again with your silly paranoia.
Pry open your eyes, darling.
Everything is always alright.
Don't find me guilty until proven so.
"Make me happy," she screamed and
Eventually the glass shattered.
I thought maybe this was it
I found you in in chartered territory and I prayed you would answer me
You showed up in my dreams this week and she saw you and she told me and you reappeared
I thought maybe this was it
But I guess we couldn't do it
I'll be honest.
It isn't because my mother can't commit
I'm not dependent on her idiosyncrasies or her
It isn't that my future is too bright
To be shaded by love
Or poetry OrartOrmusicoranythingatall
It isn't the way our hearts just don't beat in time
It isn't you. It isn't me.
It's been two years, and it's still her.
She's still in every sip of the coffee I'm too cowardly to drink and sh
E's in the words I conjure up when I try to be romantic b
Ut I'm all out of wor
Ds to use beca
Use I used them all on her lips
I can't help it. She makes appearances in shopping mall windows and in the steam from my skin melting showers. You want a forever, well so do I
But mine was stolen from me and god I wish I had purple sheets.