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1.3k · Jun 2018
rest
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
i wrote about a boy the night we met, glasses and a polka-dot
shirt i never thought would leave the stars and trees of that early
morning in august. it felt like a lunar eclipse, a moment where i stood
with my face up to the sky, straight on and uninhibited, but never
expecting the moment to stay. moments like these come and go, and
are accepted as fleeting; special dates to mark on the calendar, not
penciled in on every square. i believed that he was fleeting. that my
moons would always be grey. yet, i kept writing about him, a crimson
moon with a recurring theme of crimson feeling—full of passion,
anger, pain. i felt more inclined to write about him when my skin
would crawl, rather than when my heart would flutter. maybe it was
because our hearts were always beating, but never in time with one
another. i was afraid that my poems would become gravestones,
filling a cemetery of our almost love, hurtful reminders of what i’d
never fully had until,

now

my heartstrings are completely entangled with his, a mess of
indistinguishable shades of lavender that hum melodies of both
obsession and safety. when i left him in those early august hours, my
dreams of him faded the next morning. they turned to dust as soon as
the sun touched the horizon, for four hundred and seventy-two days.
i thought i’d lost something i’d never get back. i did. i watched our
mercurial infatuation die, and from its ashes rose a love like nothing
i’d ever known. and now my dreams of him stretch into the abyss of
time, eager and familiar, as if there’s only ever been crimson moons
hanging in the sky.
from my book, 'please don't go before i get better'
read here: http://bit.ly/pdgbigb
1.3k · Oct 2021
WHO AM I WITHOUT MY SADNESS
Madisen Kuhn Oct 2021
funny how the good feels like a stranger. i went to office depot with my little brother, we were buying markers and glitter glue, and i was someone whose hands didn’t tremble. someone who didn’t want to go home, so we took the long way. when i am driving with the radio on, i am an actor in a bad movie. when i am picking up scallions at the grocery store, i am the girl you believe in. but when i’m hurting, when i’m breaking, when i’m scared—i look down and my shadow is there. i don’t know who i am without it.
1.3k · Jun 2019
tethered
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2019
i was riding in the passenger seat
down a meandering stretch of back road
where the mountains look
like watercolors
when i realized that
your arms feel safer
than my own mother’s

(i am afraid of what that means)

i still fall asleep
in your old heather grey t-shirt
still think of you
every time i pull a sundress
over my head

(i am afraid of what that means)

the braids in my hair
the buzzing in my chest
the left side of the bed
the small, persistent voice inside
telling me to keep going

are somehow
in some measure
still yours

(i am
in some measure
still yours)
1.3k · Oct 2018
the tenderness of autumn
Madisen Kuhn Oct 2018
i hold onto
the way the air feels in october
it brings out the best in me
unlike the violating heat
of august that fills the space between
the dirt and the heavens
only a handful of moons prior to
the golden treetops and the
ritualistic pumpkin and maple
that stir our hearts and reveal
our need for stupid, cheery things

the earth is falling asleep
lying its head to rest
in the fading foliage on the ground
folding up the day into smaller
and smaller glimpses of light
but here i am
bathing in the soft wind
here i am
grinning in a grey sweater
here i am
waking up
1.2k · Oct 2018
i do what i'm supposed to
Madisen Kuhn Oct 2018
right now would be a great time to write poetry
it’s past midnight, everyone is asleep
there is a pale blue light coming from the hallway bathroom
my thoughts are lingering in distant, buried places
recalling nightmares as dreams
drawing halos over the heads of humans
but i don’t want to
i am tired
and bored
and afraid my words will smell like stale clichés
maybe i can just dip my toes in reflective black holes
feel the coolness, the deadness
the other world i’m too afraid to fall into
like quicksand or riptides or working nine to five
maybe i can lean in, just enough, to get a glimpse
of what i do not want

i promise i don’t think of you.
1.2k · Jun 2018
for noa
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
it feels like pulling fabric out of drawers
and none of it fits
last night, you put everything in the dryer
and fell asleep while
the things you thought you knew
tumbled and knotted and turned into
an unfamiliar mess

it feels like a bumblebee landing on your shoulder
you’re supposed to stay still
and wait for it to move on
until it realizes you are not a flower
it doesn’t
it stays and buzzes in your ear until
you turn to dust or learn to scream

but then, one day
it’ll feel like waking up to
rays of sun through the window
when you haven’t slept in weeks

like forgotten pocket change
like a present on your half-birthday
like an entire april without rain

and it’ll feel like
it was always there—
you’d just forgotten
to turn the light on
this is a custom poem written for a giveaway winner.
1.2k · Feb 2019
one fantasy
Madisen Kuhn Feb 2019
sometimes i drift
into another life
where ivy crawls up
the side of 
a warm building
to my left
as i walk
hand in hand 
with you,
your parents
strolling slowly
a few paces behind.
everything is still
inside of me.
i do not fear 
the future
nor ache for
the past.
my heart beats
quietly next
to yours.
i am only here,
only there.
i do not drift.
i listen to love songs
and am reminded
of my own
happiness.
1.2k · Jun 2018
for kayla
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
we are taught by the rain

the soft water,
the heavy tears

a mother who runs a bath, without asking
she just knows

trench coats are worn only if you care
about getting wet

when you swim in the ocean,
you do not know the difference

learn
to float

to catch the droplets
on your tongue

to run naked through puddles
forget your galoshes at home

and you will understand
this is a custom poem written for a giveaway winner.
1.2k · Jul 2018
unprovoked
Madisen Kuhn Jul 2018
on one overcast afternoon
under a dull sky
when the wet grass tells a story
of a storm you just missed
i will learn to compose my heart beats
to match the slow
dripping of water
off a steel roof’s edge
i will play its strings like a harp
the soft music will regulate
an even pattern of inhales
and exhales
a rising chest
falling
there are no bruises
i do not wince
i’ve forgotten the feeling of
sharp venom
my blood pumps the antidote
and the ire at my temples
in my lungs
on my chest
dissolves into a vapor of knowing
i am safe
within myself
no matter how low the clouds hang
1.2k · Oct 2018
blooming in concrete
Madisen Kuhn Oct 2018
the bits of apple
between my crooked bottom teeth
remind me of all the homes i’ve lived in
or almost lived in
that have left a sweet but spoiled taste in my mouth
as they rot just under my nose
i have yet to find a place to rest my head
not a clean pillow or warm chest would welcome my cheek
but i have looked and obsessed and tried
i have tried
my fingers ache from all the golden knobs i’ve reached out to
just to have them slammed in the door
again and again and again and againandagainandagain
the wide and narrow roads are lined with
quaint front porches and crooked mailboxes
they are bursting with life
sad ones and dramatic ones and unremarkable ones
gasping and pulsing and humming
but there is nothing suited for me
all the welcome mats have been flipped over
before i clear the front step
so i keep running my tongue over the bite of longing
in places i rather not be
1.2k · Jun 2018
a shattered glass
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
you and i
broken windows
open only to embrace the
soft morning dirt
born with poison on our lips
devouring the universe
in small breaths
wondering why the days
feel so dizzy
again and again and again
there are no flowers here
there is nothing to help them grow
from my book, 'please don't go before i get better'
read here: http://bit.ly/pdgbigb
1.1k · Jun 2018
for megan
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
just as the sun rises without fail
even when the world feels like it’s ending
like it couldn’t possibly still be filled
with light
one day, it’ll hurt less
it’ll feel more like a good memory
and less like
being stuck in a bad dream
and it’s impossible to understand why bad things happen
how they could possibly be turned into good
but you’ll doggy-ear pages
and write down notes in your phone
notes that look like prayers but sound like hope
and you’ll smile and smile and smile
and smile and smile and smile
because to ache is to have known love

and to love
is to live—
infinitely.
this is a custom poem written for a giveaway winner.
1.1k · Mar 2021
anna karenina
Madisen Kuhn Mar 2021
it doesn’t have to mean anything more
than a crumpled up dollar bill in an open guitar case
i hope one day i’ll learn to keep my head down
to keep walking instead of getting stuck in front of windows
it feels like i’m loitering in the parking lot of everyone else’s lives
a heap of squeezed ginger ale cans
and candy bar wrappers crowding my bare feet
i guess eventually i’ll have to leave and find out
things always look better through a side mirror
i glance back and see the orange trees in the median
a runner almost getting hit by a left-hand turn
i’m so glad i didn’t have to watch her die
instead i watch two college students nervously laugh
shifting their weight from one foot to the other
beside the crosswalk button and i sigh a little
they are on one side of the glass and i am on the other
i seem to miss the things i made sure would never happen to me
tuck myself into bed buzzing with the engine of
a snow-covered train, a reckless ellipses
it is comforting to want what i cannot have
1.1k · Jun 2018
for hannah
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
you wait for it to come
that aching feeling,
that sinking feeling

like waking up
after running a marathon
you didn’t train for;
like all the ocean is
in your lungs

but then you take a breath
another one, another one
until all of the sky is
in your lungs

and after a very, very
long winter
of bitter snow and
frostbitten feeling

the sun hits you
just barely
just enough to turn
your skin a shade
of golden

and everything
is okay
this is a custom poem written for a giveaway winner.
1.1k · Nov 2020
the patron saint of poets
Madisen Kuhn Nov 2020
what is something insignificant
that attaches itself easily to whatever
it picks up in the passing wind
maybe a mosquito
i know people like to say their
blood is sweet
they like to think of themselves
as beloved but the truth is
you were only nearby
with a bit of leg to bite down on
they'll fill themselves up with anyone
who gets close enough
i think i'm the same way or at least
i used to be
i could tell you why i tend to feel
so desperate for wholeness
dressed up every morning in my black gown and veil
a hand-me-down rosary wrapped around my knuckles
but the story gets old
the older i get
when i was little i told myself
i'd never be the dad in the sports car
who only listens to oldies
but i've been practicing with the sound of rain
held by the way it always comes down the same
i think i'll stare out the window forever
i think i'll never grow tired of the echo
1.1k · Jun 2018
sleep talk
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
i want to keep falling asleep to your voice till the world stops existing.
i wish i could dissolve up out of my body and take a photo from
above of me lying here, arms outstretched and duvet covering
most of me except for a few strands of hair peeking out because
then you could see how tired i am, i am so tired.
from my book, 'please don't go before i get better'
read here: http://bit.ly/pdgbigb
1.0k · Jun 2018
panic by the blue glacier
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
life is too
fleeting
and beautiful
to hide away in
a green overgrowth
of escapism

the unease is temporary
the shaking
will wash away
like bird **** flowing down
the side of a car door
in the warm bath of
a summer
storm

but the habit
of escapism
lingers, always
outstaying its welcome
taking your leftovers
from an empty fridge
without asking

yet, the momentary aching
melts away
in the bliss of sunlight

so, breathe.
be.
give in
to the freedom
of what is fated
apart from
grinding teeth and
collapsed shoulders

it either will
or will not

so be there
here
now
in spite of everything
that could
or could not
be.
written in the midst of a panic attack at the gym, while my partner played basketball and i tried not to pass out
969 · Jun 2018
where do i go from here
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
there are ladybugs crawling all over my mother’s house
or maybe it’s my stepfather’s house
or my brother and sister’s house
it’s someone’s house, it’s not mine
there are ladybugs scaling the window panes
and upside down, polka-dotted carcasses
lining the kitchen floor
the faucet is dripping
it has been for years
you dream of growing up in a house with a
fireplace in the living room
you forget that you might live there with people who
won’t fix it
they grow cold instead
they throw cardboard boxes over the side of the front porch
and pungent trash bags into a rusting and dented trunk
the basement is unfinished, filled with dead mice
and god knows what else
the washer trembles when it’s off balance
it won’t stop till you rearrange the soaking threads
there’s a yard full of untrodden grass

it looks so large and whole from the outside

but there are holes in the walls
the size of doorknobs and fists

i would really like to go home
it felt very therapeutic to write this, however, i'm not sure i could ever publish it in a book in fear of sharing a story that isn't just mine.
965 · Jun 2018
for maria
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
some knobs come without locks
they live in houses where
the windows and doors are open
through every hour of the day
bees and flower petals
float through the open air
the cat comes and goes as it pleases

even when the seasons change
when the weather brings a gentle snow
the covers the floors in white
remember the beauty
of living without deadbolts
of walking into old spaces whenever
the sky reminds you through
contorted clouds

you do not need to pack it all up in boxes
to mop the floor, to sell the couch
you can keep the door open
as long
as you like
this is a custom poem written for a giveaway winner
960 · Jun 2018
the little things
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
a small, fading hickey on my left
breast
reminds me that
you’re
the
best
even when i’m picking my face
in front of a ***** bathroom mirror
shirtless and un-showered and smelling of
cat ****
you’re the best
even when you’re the worst
even when you scream and criticize and
bleed
you are trying and you’re human and
you
see
me
you’re the best
because you care enough to grab my hand and
hold it
when you see that i’m digging my fingernail
into the side of my thumb
you’re the best
you leave marks on my chest
because i told you that i liked it once,
forever ago
hello again. it's been awhile. i am still writing. i miss having a place to put it where it feels like the right eyes are looking. like it has a home. i wrote this a few months ago, after a fight with my lover.
945 · Apr 2019
head on
Madisen Kuhn Apr 2019
if i were to press my palms on the jagged edge of my fear
with the soles of my bare feet parallel to the sky
and sun-bleached hair spreading out over the grass
like a picnic blanket for little bugs in the dirt
to sit upon and eat finger sandwich crumbs
i could focus my gaze on the upside-down sea
and watch all the things i carry float around
in the blue-black waves wiggling like half-hardened jello
where the small fish nor the white sharks give a ****
whether i am beautiful or witty or doing okay
and when the sky fades as it always does
and the tide continues to pirouette in her borrowed
pink ballet shoes with moon dust in the binding
i will forever decide to run down dirt roads
until my lungs burn
and keep going
923 · Sep 2020
1918
Madisen Kuhn Sep 2020
my whole life
i have been looking
for myself in the
gaze of someone else

i wonder what would
happen if i never cut
my hair again
or if i walked into the woods
and never looked back

when i was a little girl
you told me that
vampires couldn’t see
their own reflection

every day i run
my tongue over the
sharp points of
my teeth
burning to forget
the taste
of strangers’ wrists
907 · Jan 2019
the likeness of him
Madisen Kuhn Jan 2019
every day
i look into
a mirror
with smudges
all over the middle
framed in gold
with carvings of
birds and vines
at the edges
there are little cracks
that sometimes
my fingers
get caught on
and i bleed quietly
onto the cold
floor

it doesn’t like
to be kissed
when my hair
is half up and
half down
but still
i leave my
balmy lip stains
defiantly on
the spaces
i can reach
and focus on
everything
in front of me
except for my
own
reflection
900 · Jan 2019
repressed
Madisen Kuhn Jan 2019
if you are
like me
when you
were young
you were
taught that
tongues
should sleep
safely inside
filtered mouths
not dressed
in honesty
or pleasure
but rather
in delusion
in carefully
memorized
scripts

and when
your bones
form around
these limits
they break
a little
with every
breath
they form
in twisted
patterns
through
warped
childhoods
into
corrupt
adulthood­s
where
we must learn
what it
means to
unravel it all

to taste
to talk
to touch
and be
touched
freely.
884 · Feb 2019
gratitude
Madisen Kuhn Feb 2019
the rain has stopped
and the birds are lining
the sidewalks, shaking
their feathers dry.
today will be slow
and i’m okay with that.
i’ll cook and clean
and sit on the balcony
and breathe in the mild air.
i am happy and lucky
to be here.
it makes my heart heavy
to know that i must
remind myself of that
so often.
868 · Jan 2019
write it all down
Madisen Kuhn Jan 2019
i keep falling asleep
with poems on my mind
something about
my mother
something about
missed connections
i repeat the idea in my head
try to make it stick
enticing them to get
caught in my psyche
like flies in honey
i swear i won’t forget
but when i wake up
the window is open
the screen is intact
the little bugs are sweetly
humming on the outside
too wild and busy
to whisper what was felt
the night before
772 · Jun 2018
yellow rain
Madisen Kuhn Jun 2018
everything is covered in ****
i step in it, i sleep in it
i feel it running down my back in the
lukewarm shower
my slippers are sopping wet

right eye is red and stinging
it feels like nothing is clean

there are no black lights
i cannot find every stain to
kneel in front of with paper towels
and blot until **** and saltwater blend
so i mop the entire floor

throw away the couch;
i was never told it gets so hard to feel clean
my thirteen-year-old dog is incontinent and it's almost unbearable

— The End —