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olivia May 2020
I tried to get along without you
I rinsed off your *** in the shower and cleaned your kisses off my teeth
morning is easy, nighttime is hard
sure I miss your hand on my stomach when dawn forces my eyes to open, but I jump out of bed so quickly and make my morning Joe in a rickety old French press (the coffee maker was yours)
morning is easier than night, even when the sun illuminates the green of my eyes, swelling like a cloud swells with rain on an April afternoon
and on April 20th, when I celebrated the inauguration into my 23rd year and I was met with stark silence from you, that was hard
and nighttime's never easy, I see the glow of the stars and think of your third eye in which I adored
so venus goes retrograde and makes the missing even deeper, you'd think that months later the scars would begin to heal
not when you dig into them nightly and make a playground out of despair and terror
I rip off the bandages around my wound and call you
I get through.
we cry and we wonder, we weep and we ponder, we toss harsh words and wrap them with sugar sweet sentiments
the next thing I know I'm in your scarred arms once again
I've never felt so sweetly at home
your sturdy body is a house and I want to move back in, pull the weeds from the garden, and paint the walls pink
Saturn's rings tell me "no," but the planet's core is screaming "yes"
I consider who's right
to listen to one's heart or one's mind
my trepidation lies in hurting you again
I've treated your heart like a yo-yo, up and down and back and forth, knotting the cord
can we get through this?
is it just a chapter or is it the epilogue?

I tried to get along without you
I don't want to get along without you
olivia Oct 2019
A venn diagram or an x-axis or a y-axis or a bar graph or a pictograph
I wanna take a picture of your pain
And show it to a me that has yet to hurt you
And disrupt the space time continuum or whatever it’s called
My friend, Ra, like the sun she is
Used to punch herself in the head when she got anxious
I always thought it was ******* mental and scary as hell
Now I have to sit on my hands to refrain from hurting myself
I guess I just didn’t know extreme discomfort yet
I thought I did
Oh did I have another thing coming for me

If I could fold time and conflate experience
I’d arrest my own self
Hands trapped inside of cuffs
And not the **** pink fuzzy kind
I’d lock myself up in a prison
So that those around me would be safe from my wrecking ball
I’d save them from myself
By destroying myself
I’d put my soul in a paper shredder
And throw the remnants in a dull green dumpster

Perhaps I’m exacerbating the experience
We’ll call it “emotional cutting”
Listening to 100,000 Fireflies
Looking at that video of you saying “wake up, wake up, wake up”
Continuously going out of my way for you
Even though you say stop
I cant help it
I need to put a bandaid over this volcano
I need to win you over
I want you to come over to my side of the bed
Leaving so much space on the left side
As we are wrapped in each other

I promise I didn’t mean to ****** you when I massaged your back
I know my promises mean nothing
Like you said, a relationship is built in trust..
And there’s none there

But there’s love and light and life
And where there’s life there’s hope

I don’t want to meet you in the future
At the supermarket
With your wife

I want you to be my forever fling
Wearing an opal ring

I am your wife
olivia Oct 2019
Reaching still for you
The way you reach for me
In the morning
Your right arm wrapped around my belly
Fluttering inside

Crying for you still
The way you cried
At Hey Arnold
Your saltwater coursing through your cheeks
Tasting my tears
Like the salt rim around the margarita
I drink to forget you

But I will never forget you
Your soul in ingrained in my brain
I close my eyes (awake) and see your crooked front teeth
I close my eyes (asleep) and see us laughing, swinging

And you will remember me
The way I left you
Like a crackhead leaving their daughter behind
Only to be reconciled a decade later
Resentment isn’t the word, neither is forgiveness

“You won’t be happy with me
But give me one more chance
You won’t be happy anyway”

Maybe I’ll sing your favorite song at karaoke
And bring the house down with sadness
Like when you sang Skyway
Your cinnamon flavored voice booming

I always put an excess of it in my oatmeal
Although it makes my eyes

I should drink some water
I should get some sleep
I should take my meds

I will dress in black
I will chain smoke my spirits
I will drink myself to a stupor
ZzzzZZZzzzzzz tired ZZzzzzzZZZZ
ZZZZzzzzZ sleeping ZZZzzzzzZ
ZzzZZZZZZzZ living ZzzzZZzzZz
ZZzZzZzzzZZ dead ZzZzZZzZz
  Oct 2019 olivia
E. E. Cummings
in the rain-
darkness,     the sunset
being sheathed i sit and
think of you

the holy
city which is your face
your little cheeks the streets
of smiles

your eyes half-
half-angel and your drowsy
lips where float flowers of kiss

there is the sweet shy pirouette
your hair
and then

your dancesong
soul.     rarely-beloved
a single star is
uttered,and i

       of you
  Oct 2019 olivia
E. E. Cummings
If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.
olivia Oct 2019
flicked down and dark
head in the clouds
straining to crane my neck
back to you
to see if you're there

but when I see you
I'm a burning sun
although I'm only the moon
inconstant and dark and dull
but you light me up
you flick me on and up

I imagine you touching me
touching you, touching me
I know I'd only quiver
I'd shake
an earthquake
my thighs are vibrating
as I'm waiting

how can I miss something I've never had

somehow I already want more

more of you and more of me

but mostly more of you and me
olivia Aug 2019
I write with a pink Bic now

My phone is white and out of storage and I’m not connected to the
   cloud because it freaks me out, so every time I delete a picture, she
   asks “are you sure?” And I “delete anyway”
My high school best friend’s cousin’s husband just died and I’m
   wondering why I’m weeping for a kin I never grew akin to, a mere
   stranger, a subtle blip in my matrix. But his poetry
   is beautiful, I know that. And his music is beautiful, I know that.
I drank a root beer float tonight and the night before, or did I eat it? It
   reminded me of buying 99 cent slushes at Convenient. Or the
   “healthy” slushes I bought to accompany my soft pretzel everyday
   in middle school.
On the terrace, everyone else ate hot dogs and I looked down,
   holding my soggy French fries and wondering what else there is out
   there besides ketchup and mustard: like in Princess Diaries when
   Julie Andrews puts mustard on her corndog. I always thought
   that was so cool.
Or when Mia Thermopolis sit sideways in her giant comfy chair after
   throwing darts at balloons filled with paint aka “stupid cupid stop
   picking on me” or is it… “hitting on me”
Remember when Ben Day asked for pictures and when you sent cute
   selfies in your sports bra, he responded, “okay, but can they not be
   of your face?”
Or when Ben Wilson taught you that “hurt people hurt people” and
   had “ultra conservative” on his Facebook page underneath political
   views and you had go ask what that meant. I Corinthians 1:13 or
   something like that was always my favorite bible verse because its
   the only one I ever learned by heart.
Hail Satan.
We all rot under late capitalism.
But I didn’t know that then. I know that now, but not then.
Now I wonder mostly about the ethics behind “procreating.” I wanna
   bear fruit, but I can’t even stand the thought of myself burning in a
   fiery pit, let alone my spawn.
My stepsister is pregnant. She found out the “gender” today, “boy.”
   My nieces and nephews have had a very gendered upbringing, I
   guess I did too: barbies and bratz and Betty spaghetti.
I know everyone always says they just want a “healthy, happy baby”
But I have a crippling nicotine addiction and manic depression, I’m
   not healthy or happy.
Do you think I was the idea my parents pictured when my mom peed
   on that stick and got a plus sign?
Probably not.
I hate to disappoint.
They can live in the glory days when my cursive handwriting was
   better than anyone else’s in my second grade class. Olivia Layne
   Ulmer on that brown, dotted, lined paper.

With a yellow no.2 pencil.
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