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liz Jul 2019
sometimes i wish i was back home, back in time. tucked in my purple galaxy sheets, upstairs in my twin size bed. back in a time where fireflies circled my room, with a night sky full of stars alight with possibilities. where familiar had a scent and it hugged my lunges around a camp fire. where it coated my hair in chlorine from night swimming on a summer’s night. where time had a feeling and it wasn’t so scary seeming so endless. where it beat in my heart like a song that i wouldn’t dream of hearing the end of it. home. i have scars of it on my skin from playing too rough in the backyard, with friends that made the air echo with kiddish laughter. i have pieces of it scattered in this house that doesn’t fit quite right. home. where every position of the sun hit every corner just right. where i grew with each vine. each root. each moment. i shared my adolescence with a blueprint built to a house that made itself a part of me. no fourth of july is right if it isn’t in my front yard, when the sun is just setting and the sparklers are being put out on the front porch. no christmas is christmas if I’m not watching the snow fall down between the street lamps of my neighborhood from the window in the front door, waiting for santa to give me what I’ve been good for all year. no autumn is autumn without the big tree in the backyard changing into these fire burning colors that rain ashes onto the grass, amazing me every time. no spring is spring without grams taking me to the back garden, showing me the respect roots need to grow.
home. once you leave it you will never get it back. sometimes you’ll find yourself on some random street in some random time catching a sliver of it. for no particular reason. the sun will align just right, and shine just enough, to remind you of what it used to be like. how life used to be before your home became somebody else’s. before the scars you now bare are not the kind built around laughter. before you got this hole in your chest where home used to fit. and everything that came with it.
holiday’s sing, but not in the tune i used to hear it in. flowers grow, but i lost respect for the roots that took my grams away with it. the forth of july will celebrate, and i’ll go along with it but it’ll never be the same.
i’ll never stop missing it. no matter how long it’s been.
  Jun 2017 liz
Sierra Primus
Last night we screamed.
You broke things,
I ran.

This morning we hugged.
You apologized and I could tell that you meant it this time
because you cried and you begged me to stay
and you cried.

That's how it works, right?
People cry when they mean things?
Or has every day just been practice
and last night only the dress rehearsal
leading up to your main act right here
kneeling in front of me
on a tile floor glued together by lies
and a carpet woven by false love.

And I know that I should pay more attention
to the man behind the curtain
but right now, in this moment, I forget.
I forget the thunderstorm in your voice
I forget the earthquake in your fist
and the volcano in your eyes.

I forget the fear that made me sleep in my car
I forget the sadness that made me want to end my life
I forget the manipulation that made me think it was all my fault.
Because in this moment, none of it matters.

Because people cry when they mean things.

liz Apr 2017
“It was a struggle of fighting to be who you wanted me to be, and who I actually was. I knew what I wanted, but it wasn’t in the same way that you did. I couldn’t hide my heart, I couldn’t put it away for you. And don’t you dare tell me that you don’t have one, because I’ve seen it. Even if it was just for a flicker of a second— it was there. I won’t accept your initial word, because what you said didn’t add up to what you did to me. You told me you didn’t want anything, but you called me. You told me you didn’t want anything, but you touched me. You told me this and you told me that, but you kissed me and did everything with me and you mean to tell me it was only ever because you were bored?
The next time you invite someone in, as she sleeps beside your tired body, don’t pull her close and tell her to “come here”. Don’t kiss her on the neck as you reach for her hand and have your breath softly hum on her bare shoulder like a sweet wind. Don’t pull the sheets up and dream so peacefully beside her.
Don’t do anything, because she’ll never forget the sounds. The train crosses through the empty town around 2 a.m. every morning, and she will wake up every time. She will see you there and her heart will sink because you sleep so peacefully. Her heart will sink because you say things, but then you do things. And she will become whatever is you want her to be, just so she can be here in this moment again. She will do absolutely whatever it is to breathe you in just one more time.
Even if that means she becomes somebody else completely.
She will do it, and you won’t even notice.”*
  Jul 2016 liz
Your love for me is a loud silence
liz Jul 2016
There are hallways
and there are rooms.
Roads connecting to homes.
Paths leading to villages.

Vacant spaces brining me to nowhere.

Veins are lines on a map,
we are more than just bodies.
We are unfolded pieces of paper
creased in the corners with relevant urge.
With crests and valleys composed of experiences
and dreams
and adventure.

I have yet to unfold.

Doors whisper,
they invite you in.
So many locks and keys
and treasure chests full of passion
of determination
of unwavering will.

I’m locked and no key has ever fit.

Footsteps are history in the making.
Proof of the reason you stayed;
the reason you left.
The carved sand along the shore
making you wonder if they are running away
or going home.

I turn to only find my shadow.

Maps full
of all these hallways and rooms
and reasons
and unopened treasure chests.
Missing keys and ghostly whispers
before every door
and I begin to wonder
whether or not I was begging please
to the slurring headlights down the midnight road
or to somebody who could save me.
There comes a point when you need to realize that sleeping isn't a cure to anything.
liz May 2016
You can't just let go
Because it runs so much deeper than that
Much much deeper
And to dismiss it so easily
Means it didn't even exist at all
And that this pain that is so real
Is all my imagination
And I did all of this to myself
That the way you spoke to me
Was in a dream
And I didn't even want to wake up
liz May 2016
He’s afraid of the ocean
because he doesn’t understand why the shoreline deserves to be kissed
every time they push the waves away.
He thinks we’re all going to die and it’ll be for nothing;
that will live to fill up empty spaces like headless bees
with a desire to sting the very first thing we touch.
He believes that these limitations and politics are pointless
because apparently keeping your hands to yourself was something someone made up
because they were crookedly insecure about themselves.
He looks up at the sky and hates the moon
because it doesn’t burn bright enough to cover up all the secrets that the stars hold.
So he blames the system and closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
He listens to renditions of the same story told in fifteen different ways and is captivated every time because its so simple
and so easy
to have someone teach them for you
instead of sleeping on a bed of blades.
He doesn’t even walk
he saunters
and nods as a hello
and wears baseball caps
because maybe it’ll shadow the lies he wears creased between his eyes.

He isn’t real,
no matter how many times you touch him.

He’ll claim that he is a bearer of the sun and that the light is the ode to freedom
but you’ve never in your life kissed anything so cold.
He’ll whisper to you and you’ll want to whisper back,
but you’ll find yourself driving home
screaming at the top of your lungs
because you left drunk
and he was more worried about his career
than your heart through the windshield
when he could've just drove you home himself.
He’s Pinocchio and you’ll end up wishing he could lie better
So you could feel like a respected lady just once.
But his tone reminds you
that the only kind of love a boy like him is made for
is the kind of love that leaves you bleeding and wet.
He’s an empty auditorium full of reverberating echoes
and you’ll spend your time
when the show will end—
Not even realizing that the jokes on you.
You could’ve drawn the curtains at any point in time
but you didn’t
because he was smiling
And nothing in this world is as lethal as his smile
as he tells you
there’s nothing to be afraid of

Those words are bullets
and you weren’t wearing any armor.
are dangerous
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