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Jan 25 · 393
Melanie Shupe Jan 25
I wonder if you remember, sitting on your porch smoking a cigarette while I sat on mine
Jan 25 · 49
I 'member
Melanie Shupe Jan 25
It took me this long to sit back and think about who you used to be.
It's been hard to pick through all of the ****, rotting away the parts of my brain
that have forgotten who we used to be.

It wasn't always this vat of putrid waste, of tossed away hopes, of the essence of failure, of distrust and hatred.

Once before, a fire burning warm, hands held tight, drowning beers and speaking over the dead.

Now the castaways of a shadow's burden, haunting the spirits of the back of our minds.

I'd forgotten what you were like before this, but I can remember now.
This poem wasn't one of a sober mind
Jan 21 · 86
Around and Around
Melanie Shupe Jan 21
I will forgive but not forget and
hold every bit of it
inside of me to fester and burn
like the pain and betrayal. You haven't earned
back my trust completely and every time
you raise your voice
I wonder if I had the choice
Or if the cycle and its circles run me, like a hamster on a wheel.
Always going, never reaching an end, never a happily ever after.
Sep 2020 · 296
Social Constructs
Melanie Shupe Sep 2020
Time is the thing that ruins us all, I think.

We hold too much faith on a timeline. "You can't text a boy until after 3 days," "don't have *** with someone you just met," "you barely know each other, don't get too close."

But time has never stopped to look around and cease what its doing so I could collect my ****, why should I wait for time to collect his?

We all live until we die, but with a false timeline narrative in place, keeping up with Mr. Jones and his wife, watching my friends have more babies around me, are we really living if we're in a constant battle that resets every 24 hours?

525,600 minutes and I want to spend them all crushing and rushing and running towards my goals, towards my dreams, towards my love.

"You don't love him, you barely know him, you haven't spent enough time together."

Time is just an illusion of your making, a figment of our shared consciousness. And I have always been a little off beat, a little out of sync.

Move in. Share the bed. The smell of coffee in the morning to wake. The sound of footsteps to the shower.

I'm not giving away any of my minutes with you.
Sep 2020 · 261
Melanie Shupe Sep 2020
My soul knew yours when I looked into your eyes...
And there would have been a time I would have been too afraid to write this, but there's nothing to hide here. You know my darkest truths and somehow love me anyway.
It's strange how I asked the Universe for you, and I was granted. You fell into my lap, and it was no work at all.
But there is work to put in, and we see it on the horizon looming. That's nothing I am afraid of.
Thank you for you. I'd forgotten what trust felt like.
Aug 2020 · 114
Melanie Shupe Aug 2020
The way my name wraps around his mouth
is the same way I've wrapped my mouth
around him, 100 times, probably more, I stopped keeping track.

What do I have to change?

And we have been down this road, with its curves and twists, at least 100 times, maybe less, I stopped keeping track.

And I fail to squash it every ******* day, but I will never not miss him. Never not hear his laugh in my dreams.

What do I need to work on?

Happily ever after seems far away.
Aug 2020 · 308
A Musing
Melanie Shupe Aug 2020
Does anyone else ever just feel sick
of trying to figure other people out?
I do not have enough time left on this
Earth to try to explain to someone else
exactly what I want.

I do not want to explain again and again
what I like.
I do not want another broken record of *******.

I am a horrible alone person.
But I do not have time to argue the politics
of relationships and *** anymore.

I may just give it up.
Aug 2020 · 44
Half asleep
Melanie Shupe Aug 2020
I wonder if you remember some of the things I do...
The way your name tumbled out of my mouth as I took careful instruction
on just where to touch...
Or the hours we spent talking about nothing.
Or the way I used to be...
Or if I am just the me I am now,
still lost but still bold and unafraid,
with different scars and deeper forehead wrinkles.
Aging is irrelevant in this part of my head, you're still just as much welcome to this body as you were before.
But I don't need instructions on how to make myself scream your name anymore, I can do that all on my own...

Though help is always appreciated.
Aug 2020 · 155
Liquid Courage (10w)
Melanie Shupe Aug 2020
Can I just
                 ­       m
                   into your arms again and again?
Aug 2020 · 110
All is (Not) Well
Melanie Shupe Aug 2020
Whoever said "to have loved and lost..."
was full of ****.
I would have rather never felt this way.
I would have been so much
closer to a bird than
a tree with
dug down deep in the ground, unrelenting
hold that will just not give up, let up.
Clipped wings on a songbird,
yearning to fly again
but grounded
by life.
Aug 2020 · 81
Next Time
Melanie Shupe Aug 2020
Hear me out,
5 years will pass quickly and slowly.
A jumble of seconds, slow and steady to create another 525,600 minutes to close out this last chapter.

Growth comes and goes in waves, realization its steady companion. We are still so ******* young.

Perhaps Peter Pan had it right. I do not want to be grown yet, stuck between birth and death; I watch time tumble treacherously through my fingers like quicksand, no where to go but down.

Yet I can pick you up like a favorite book. I've seen all the creases and fades and lines and letters before, but it's been 5 long years and there's something exciting about you still.

If this steady crawl to the end is it for all of us, perhaps I'll meet you in the next life. Maybe next time, we can get it right.
Jun 2020 · 109
Blah blah
Melanie Shupe Jun 2020
***** spews like words, oh wait, the other way...

Like that time at my best friend's wedding when I had to give a speech,
and even I knew I was full of **** talking about love being a fairy tale. But I was so drunk on Jello shots and Crown that I talked myself into believing it for four years.

Like that time I said too much to make a boy stay just one more night, and I gave up my freedom for silence and dishes and diapers.

Like the first boy I ever loved falling back into my lap and my mouth moving faster than my head can keep up with... is this even a good idea?

Words flow freely in open silences because I cannot stand the sound of nothing around me when the noise inside of me is so loud; all this has done is get me into trouble.
Melanie Shupe Jun 2020
Laid up on the couch with one leg casually tossed over yours,
the room still vaguely spinning with one eye open.
Maybe downing 4 beers in an hour wasn't such a good idea, but my anxiety got the better of me, and I didn't know what else to do while everyone else stared at their phones and I stared at you, memorizing the planes of your face so I won't forget them again.
My head is pounding and I doze, YouTube in the background. It has to be late, or early.
The fan blows against my skin and I peek to see if you are still there. Yup. Okay. Breathe, Mel, breathe.
The nauseating feeling of being left again roils my stomach. Or maybe that's the beer again.
It has to be early, or late. But this moment will burn in my memory for days as I psychoanalyze everything I've done wrong that could make you want to run.
Is it early or late?
I wake up and you're not there, but when I stumble to the bathroom you're laying in your bed and I would join you but the room is still spinning and I need to just lay back down.
Jun 2020 · 212
Melanie Shupe Jun 2020
"I have to go home now."

Home is an empty apartment with too many empty soda boxes stacked in one corner waiting to be ripped up.
Home is kid's toys littering my hallway, try not to step on that Hot Wheel I keep forgetting to pick up.
Home is every other week of coloring and kids shows on tv and patiently teaching my son how to tie his shoes.

Home is not how it used to be.

There is no screaming in my home now. No wondering if I am good enough. No empty promises of, "this will make our marriage work," when all the counseling in the world couldn't help.

Home is learning to be alone with myself for the first time in four years. Home is quiet with no tv to listen to in the background while my son sleeps at his fathers and my whole life is different than it was six months ago.

Home is strength in leaving. Home is where I will heal. Home isn't four walls, but the cavern inside myself I've filled with lies that need to be dug out of the pits of time and cleared with sage and home... just simply isn't what it used to be.

But I will rebuild.
Jun 2020 · 279
Midnight Revelry
Melanie Shupe Jun 2020
It's only with this ache between my thighs
I think,
"Maybe I've tried to **** away my
one too many times."
And every kiss feels like a last goodbye.
Sweat pools like old fights and old memories and old wounds and old scars and old heartbreaks;
I'm left wondering if this will heal
or break me.
You have more power than you know.
To unravel me in more ways than
quivering beneath you with my
hands in your hair and your name
on repeat tumbling from my mouth
like a prayer,
or a curse.
Is it a prayer or a curse?
******* away the pain, or allowing someone to come back in and break
every wall back down again...
Pull me back to you again and let me know if I am what you want
or if this is just insulation for
another cold winter alone.
Apr 2020 · 122
Melanie Shupe Apr 2020
Phantoms and specters have nothing on you.
Harry Houdini your way right through my defenses,
and I'll put my hand on every mistake I've made and light them up
like I'm Vanna White.
But maybe,
I'm over being the girl sawed in half
for everyone else's amusement.
You can't just take a heart out of your hat after making it
And the empty halls of my heart can only echo with the footsteps of the of the past for so long
Before we exercise them with
100 proof
a good night's sleep.
I'll point the blanchette at "goodbye" and burn a cigarette like it's sage.
No more ghosts.
Apr 2020 · 113
Melanie Shupe Apr 2020
I cannot hide from my own thoughts.
It may be dark in here, but I know someone has to have a match.
And if my words are kerosene, yours are flint.
That silver tongue of yours may find use after all;
abrasive enough to catch.
I was never afraid of the heat of fire, but these dark spots in my memory burn too bright with time and too many lit matches.
The smell of sulfur forever a reminder.
I was never afraid of the heat of fire, but these ******* scars are a constant reminder
that sometimes darkness isn't so
scary after all.
Aug 2019 · 235
Melanie Shupe Aug 2019
It has long been time to say goodnight,
The hands of the clock caressing my face, lulling me into secluded silence.
But I can still smell your skin on me, feel the bite of the binds.
And so the cigarette still burns. On. And on. And on. And the tears still fall. On. And on. And on.
Agony is telling the same story over and over until you believe it. "I'm fine, I don't think about it anymore. I'm over it."
And then you see something. Or hear something. Or read the ******* newspaper. And your name is never under arrest.
Maybe you never hurt anyone again. Maybe you only took my voice.
Maybe the cigarette still burns so close to my fingers that I have scars. Maybe I still wait for sleep. Maybe you'll catch fire to that bed dropping a cigarette. Maybe the flames will take you.
Maybe I can wait for the next time the pain will hit. Maybe I can smoke another cigarette.
Nov 2017 · 388
Melanie Shupe Nov 2017
I married the knight
instead of my Prince Charming.
My heart is empty.
May 2017 · 456
Melanie Shupe May 2017
There is no way to get rid of your demons besides exorcism.
Mine must be as buff as Marines the way I talk about them,
Exercising, jumping jacks, squats.
Those ******* have been around as long as my gap tooth has been closed.
I have given them pet names. One is "What If," the other "Past." They like to dance merrily on my tongue as I talk to myself wandering around my house.
They like to be written about, self absorbed and aware as they are that they exist.
What If is the one that yells "hey, hey, look over here!" Past is an introvert, hiding shyly among my innermost workings.
Occasionally, like most super buff dudes do, they get drunk and want to play. That's when the danger starts.
What If is a flirter. He really likes to hit it and quit it with my emotions. Past is that sappy guy that sits at the end of the bar and doesn't say a whole lot, but you can tell he just broke up with his girlfriend by the way he sighs into his drink.
These drunk ******* really need to knock their **** off, if only to let me sleep soundly for a single night.
May 2017 · 951
Melanie Shupe May 2017
It ***** when you struggle
Because someone always has it worse than you, and you know that
But on your worst days you just want someone to talk to
And everything you have to say falls on deaf ears, or gets one upped by people who have it worse.
I know that I don't have it bad, I know that I am lucky.
But it doesn't mean that my problems are less real. It doesn't mean that I can throw my feelings under the rug.
Tell me how it feels to be second class because your life feels and seems so put together when your glue is melting at the seams
Tell me how to avoid drowning in the deep blue of your feelings that are overtaking your chest
Tell me what happens when your only friends don't have time for you anymore
And your complaints can't fall on the ears of the infant who didn't ask for a mess of a mother
Tell me how to live the way I'm supposed to in my glass house filled with dark corners of hiding away my needs to better serve the needs of others
Tell me how to survive
Dec 2016 · 884
Melanie Shupe Dec 2016
This is for the people who don't have the suicide hotline number memorized just in case.
For the people who have never cried sitting across from a counselor because their lives are actually perfect.
For the people who have never chainsmoked a pack of cigarettes while their brain flirts with the danger of "what if..."
Whose hands don't shake uncontrollably with the memories of what used to be.
This is for the people who haven't drank an entire bottle just for the peace of sleep
The people who haven't wondered if waking up isn't the scariest part of their day
This is for the people who weren't diagnosed with PTSD, Anxiety, and Depression all in a spin of words.
The people who don't have to hold themselves together with fake promises that survival is only half the battle.
To the people who have never met the call of a razor blade with the skin of their bodies.
This is for the people who say that mental illness is just whining.
Do you realize just how lucky you actually are?
Oct 2016 · 531
Smoke Screen
Melanie Shupe Oct 2016
In between drags from a cigarette I can barely taste around the metallic punch of anger, I glare at you.
This fight, that fight, words we don't really mean thrown into the pile with other words like "blame," and "fault" and "whatever." Repetitive jabs meant to engulf and inflame sore scorch marks from past spats.
Between me and you is this smoke, fanned across my line of sight in a way that almost blurs you. Sometimes I wish I could blur you, sand down your harsh edges and pull you back into this calm reality in which I live.
But drag after drag, night after night, the same old fights and the same old cigarettes,
I guess it's the only reality I've ever known.
Oct 2016 · 561
New Love
Melanie Shupe Oct 2016
After him, I swore I'd never fall in love again. Swore it in contract and oath to God and in the eyes of the state of Ohio. After him, I promised I'd never love another boy.
I never meant to lie, to be so madly in love with someone else that it consumes my entire day. To be needed so much that my marriage might be shoved to the back burner. I never meant to be so deeply mad about someone else, to put their needs before my own; to care more about them then I care about my own life.
I never meant to love so deeply this brown eyed boy, this young soul, newly loveable. This boy with the same eyes as his father, as my husband. This boy that will someday call me mom.
Sep 2016 · 377
Lost myself
Melanie Shupe Sep 2016
Where did I lose myself?
Between lines of paper I stopped filling with my daily musings,
around corners of the walls that hold my family now,
or in my brain, where the illness has swallowed me whole and spit me back out more times than it has not?
I have become an even more fragile soul than before, now relied upon to keep an entire new person whole. It's a curious task when I'm falling apart at the seams.
Where did I go? Hidden amidst old thoughts and harrowed poems, new smells and insomnia,
I have to know the answer to this.
Did I allow my soul to escape between breaths, allow the words that twisted their way through each crevice of my soul to escape me when I decided I had to be more? Did I heal myself just enough that my sicknesses are actually all in my head?
Jun 2016 · 1.0k
Melanie Shupe Jun 2016
Don't fall victim
It's a trap
Sadness wants
To eat your soul
Away to
Nothing; Nothing
E**ver replace you
This was a poem I wrote at age 18 when my boyfriend at the time was away at boot camp
May 2016 · 653
To My Lover of the Past
Melanie Shupe May 2016
It does not make me sad that you have moved on, that her face is next to yours in pictures now.
Sometimes it surprises me; I remember the four years that she was me. It's almost a shockwave to see her where I used to be...
a little moment of confusion when I forget that that narrow joint under your shoulder is no longer my home
But I see your smile and it makes me smile still. There is no falling out of love, only changing the way you love. I have every amount of love for you, just hidden in different cavities, pushed back in memories, reserved for who I was then and not who I am now.
She is so beautiful, so alive, so in the moment with you that I am so thrilled that she has become me, that what was once a face I had memorized is hers to kiss now, that you have someone that cares so very much about you.
Isn't it nice to know that all of that practice we did together paid off? That us loving each other then taught us to love others so much better? That the holes that we once filled in each other's lives, triangles that should have been square, are now boxed in corner to corner with people who fit wrapped into us so much better.
It makes my heart full to know that you've found that happiness.
What a blessing that I can say that we are both finally happy apart.
May 2016 · 958
Ten Fingers, Ten Toes
Melanie Shupe May 2016
I count each movement as a small victory, each pain in my back and chest a triumph. I can hardly breathe and my chest is on fire but my God am I thankful for it.
I have created an infinity in what was once smaller than the dot on this i. A new universe in tiny fists no bigger than the scar on my knee. An other.
It is terrifying to know what power I hold, and what responsibility. My panic centers are always alive, my depression ebbing and flowing in tides unlike anything I can describe in mere human language.
But each movement, each new pain and new bump in the night, each ugly red fire mark on my skin, each heartburn...
Everything is worth it when I see your tiny black and white face in pictures.
In just three and a half months you will be in flesh.
I have created.
Apr 2016 · 542
Melanie Shupe Apr 2016
Rekindling old flames and lighting half gone cigarettes is what I'm known for.
It never is quite the same, really. The taste is all but gone, the flint gone from the match before you can even strike it. The taste of you is just a bitter reminder, like kicking that habit for good and taking the first drag off a cigarette in six months.
Then I started over.
There's a difference really from starting an entirely new fire and trying to relight pieces of charred and half burned pine that got rained on. One will burn bright for a minute and fizzle out. The other will burn a lifetime.
That last drag on a new cigarette never tasted more like addiction.
Apr 2016 · 460
Melanie Shupe Apr 2016
We went our separate ways half a year ago now, and it's funny that today my brain stopped on you.
I'm wondering how your mom is, how your brother is. I'm wondering if the alcohol has finally swept away the last good bits of you with its bitter bite and all of the things I saw in you have drowned in the wretched agony of the depression you refused help for.
I would say that I have prayed for you, but I think God even knows that's wasted on both of us. That's a lie anyway. I didn't pray. I stopped and thought of you twice until today.
I just wish I could have had the apathy you desired, that maybe you could have basked in it for long enough to feel better. I wish that I hadn't started needing you like I did, that your voice didn't bring justification to my long, lonely days.
I wish that the insane amount of love that I had for you could have glued the parts of you that were worth fixing back together, could have dug the alcoholic a new grave and brought back who you were before the bottled ***** betrayed you.
Betrayal is what you're into, I guess. I see it now a little more clearly than I did then.
Just know, I don't wish you poorly when I say I  wish you the best.
Feb 2016 · 718
Black Sheep
Melanie Shupe Feb 2016
I guess every family has to have a black sheep, and in mine, it might as well be me.
With eight younger siblings, following like ducks in a row...
Getting pregnant and married at 22 was the worst thing I could have done, at least according to my mom.
She would have rather I got an abortion, or been a single mother, than would she have chose my marriage.
I guess love doesn't have a thing to do with it, because that's not a path she ever took.
I chose my own way, to do what was best for my family, and because it wasn't her way it was wrong.
I guess, if choosing my own path makes me bad, I have painted myself black, neck to belly, hips to toes.
And if God forbid my siblings cross her, I will always be the worst because I was the first.
So as far as black sheep go... *bah
Jan 2016 · 344
Two lines
Melanie Shupe Jan 2016
One line means that your life will not change. That everything will continue to exist as it was before. That you'll be the same person that you were ten minutes ago. That everything is, and will continue to be, yours.
Two lines means absolute change. Means giving yourself completely up as a person. Means that you'll be new, different. Two lines means that nothing exists as it was before. That nothing belongs to just you anymore. That your life will be shared.

It was the only test I ever passed that I kind of wanted to fail.
Dec 2015 · 1.0k
My Poet Heart
Melanie Shupe Dec 2015
I refuse to apologize for the things I've written.
I refuse to apologize for telling truths amongst the cacophony in rhymes, or rhythms, or word *****.
I refuse to not own this brain, to regret my depression, to swallow my anxiety with a pill.
I will not lie, as my family expands and my brain reconforms to standards I forgot, it gets harder to dig up the person that bled for these words.
She and I aren't the same anymore, but we belong to the same body.
So I call on her when I need her, let myself really feel everything, my alter ego: the poet.
As my boyfriend's family asks me what I do for fun, I try not to lie. To say that I pour words from my soul is distasteful. So I joke "I'm a poet of sorts, a writer."
And they look at me with frightened eyes, so I do not tell them this is what I want to do for a living.
I do not tell them about the razor blades beneath my bed at age 16, or the ****** assault at 20.
I do not tell them inside this head is a mess that is desperately hiding.
But I do not disown her. My mess. My poet heart.
Dec 2015 · 1.1k
Masochist Poets
Melanie Shupe Dec 2015
The terrible thing about poets is we're all sadistic masochists.
We all want to read about heartache, and we all want to write about the demons that haunt us in our worst hours.
We never talk about our happiness, our productive days and nights where we slept enough.
We drown in each other's depression so nicely, a swimming pool of lonely writers, ink pooling around us each because we always carry pens in our pockets.
No one wants to know how happy we are. How our boring mundane human life of doing dishes and vacuuming the carpet went.
We all want to stick the knives in a little deeper, to draw out a little more of each other's blood. Because honestly, our poetry has always been written in blood, sweat, and tears.
That's the thing about poets. We'd rather be miserable and have something to write about than be happy and have nothing to write about.
Nov 2015 · 766
Getting Better
Melanie Shupe Nov 2015
It's been a long time since I looked in the mirror and didn't see a stranger.
A long time since "you're beautiful" wasn't met with an instant shake of the head and a laugh.
I don't think he realizes what he's done to me.
While I was busy holding myself together with duct tape and glue, he was learning to stitch his own heart.
And our scars are reminders not of what horror we went through, but that we can make it through anything.
I'm not going to lie, I'm still a mess.
But he's helping me sweep up my broken pieces and catalog what caused the brokenness to begin with.
And as afraid as I am that failure is imminent,
His arms feel like a place I could call home for a long, long time.
Nov 2015 · 816
Moving In
Melanie Shupe Nov 2015
I never expected to fall back in.
I suppose jumping is the real word, because I've always been a headfirst without thinking kind of girl.
I've always called it fearless, the words forever tattooed into my ribs, scar tissue raising so that his hands graze it when they touch me,
But oh dear God am I terrified as I make room for my things in his closet
Take a breath and store my makeup under his sink.
This is the first time in forever I can say that I wish I wasn't jumping headfirst.
I am frightened I am falling, forever the fearless female
Now a pile of lovesick mess on the living room floor I share.
Oct 2015 · 11.1k
Your Fault
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.
Oct 2015 · 625
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
I miss you, okay? Even though it was my fault it ended and even though I want to punch you in your stupid face,
I also want to kiss your stupid face.
I'm so mad at everything and you and myself and fate and God
I just want to wrap myself in blankets
Or all of your stolen clothes..
And I want to not want to cry and I want to cry and **** I just.
Just ****.
Where are the words I need to explain what I'm feeling so that I can just deal with it?
Why can't I ******* deal with it?
I hate everything about this, every ******* moment I wish I could talk to you, every moment I know I can't. I can't.
Why can't I?
Oct 2015 · 1.4k
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
Once upon a time, there was a man who wished to be an ice sculptor. He took a block of ice and a chisel and got straight to work.
He sculpted a woman, as beautiful as any other. He sculpted her to be his perfect complement, the woman he wished was real. He sculpted her with a smile and open arms, with kind eyes and a perfect body.
After he was finished, she was absolutely lovely, and absolutely everything that he had ever wanted his ice sculpture to be.
But then he went on to sculpt other things, and she started to become a further and further thought, distanced from his mind as his other projects became more important.
One day, he realized he'd forgotten all about his first piece of work. She'd started to crack and melt in places, but she was still almost perfect.
Instead of fixing her, the sculptor broke her in pieces with his chisel so he didn't have to worry about fixing her.
I wrote this on Facebook in 2012? I have no guarantees as to the sober-ness to this thought
Oct 2015 · 650
23:26 EST
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
I still see your face in my dreams.

Is this what loss actually feels like? The way my whole body aches as these days work their way forward, as my brain refuses to think of you until the dark hours of the night when I can't think of literally anything else.

I love you
                                                             it's over
I need you
                                 I can't do this anymore

Back and forth back and forth
I am so empty without your hands holding my flyaway pieces together

I don't know why I wasn't good enough.
Oct 2015 · 1.3k
Dear Me
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
Dear 17 year old me,

You'll fall in love with a boy this year that will bring you as much happiness as pain.
You'll fall in love with his eyes, and the dimples in his smile,
And dear girl you will cry when the loneliness of his departure makes the innermost of you empty and aching.

I would tell you to run now, that when your friend tries to give you his phone number, to turn her down.

But in this pain, five years later, five years of the highest highs and the lowest lows, as I ache from the innermost of me and feel empty, in this pain I tell you do not run.

Without him, you will not have a million poems, you will not have some of the best nights of your life. You will not sleeplessly wonder what you've done wrong, or sleepily whisper your "I love yous" into his ear.

And what is love without heartbreak?
What would I be without him?

Humor me, little past self. Fall in love with him. Write poems about his eyes, write letters to him with no end. Love him. Lose him. Fight him. Love him again.

And then come back as me, twice as strong and twice as weary.

You won't regret it.

Love, you at 21.
I frequently write letters to myself, but this isn't the usual style.
Oct 2015 · 650
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
The stars are where I renew my faith, when the clouds let me see them.

Love in the stars, the constellations connecting in eerie ways, telling stories that I've long since forgotten I've heard.

Love in the way you once kissed me, but we were clouded over; our story one that people will forget was ever spoken.

But the stars stay, even under the clouds, and my love will stay, but someday my story will be spun with someone else's name.

And we will become a forgotten constellation, a once was, never to be again.
This kinda *****, but oh well.
Oct 2015 · 341
A Poet's Battle
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
I write when I am sad, when I am angry, when I am happy, when I am lost

It is easier when people critique my writing than when people trivialize my feelings
Oct 2015 · 417
Poetry for the damned
Melanie Shupe Oct 2015
No one could ever know just how I'm falling apart,
Slowly sinking, swiftly sinning
Dug myself a new hole today, six feet under doesn't seem so deep after consideration
If I hold myself together with duct tape and glue, another boy's arms, another goodnight kiss from another stranger
Does that make me stronger or just stupid?
Whatever's waiting for me,
that **** better hurry up
I'll be too far gone
For even fate
to find
Sep 2015 · 1.3k
Melanie Shupe Sep 2015
I would sing praises of you to the world...
if only you would remove
your hand from
my mouth
Melanie Shupe Sep 2015
I could never know just how dangerous being a lamb is until I fell for the lion.
He could easily snap me in half, mentally, emotionally.
He is all predator, cool calm and collected.
All harsh lines and sharp tongue
All confidence and cockiness
But the way he moves, so beautifully
It breaks my heart.
And I am the sick ******* that can't bear to let go,
I would run if I wasn't so busy being caught up in him
So busy wanting to put him back together
Because he wasn't always a lion, wasn't always this.
He was a cub once, a smaller version of himself now
Lesser and more
But I will fall asleep tonight thinking of his roar
And what it does to my heart
Not afraid, but utterly transfixed
Stupid, stupid lamb
For falling in love with the lion.
The quote that is the title was written by Stephenie Meyer ten years ago. The poem however, is mine
Sep 2015 · 522
My Life
Melanie Shupe Sep 2015
I live a life of leaving.
Half my **** is packed into my car, and to have the mindset I could leave with it all...
I live a life of unsettled, restless passion
A life full of wanting things I can't have
A life full of smiling at strangers, buying coffee for the chick that had a bad day, a life full of filling the world with just a little happiness.
I live a life full of fixing. I fix things. I fix everything. I fall apart myself, but the smiles keep me going.

I want to pack it all up again. I want to leave home again. I want to smile at all new strangers in all new cities and buy cups of coffee for all new people having bad days.

And I want to fix you.
I'm actually terrified. So full of fear. Because I haven't wanted anything in a long time.
Sep 2015 · 431
I love you
Melanie Shupe Sep 2015
I have loved you through every broken promise.
Through every fight, through every cold night alone
Through every minute, hour, day, month
Through every year.
I have loved you through every tear.

I have loved you when all I had of you was your sweatshirt to hold at night.
When all I had were ghosts of memories.
When all I had was myself
When all I had was gone.
I have loved you on and on.

I have loved you for all you are
For all you are not.
For all you stood for.
For every laugh, and for every cry.
For every kiss and every smile
I have loved you for every mile.

I will love you through every fight
Through every sleepless, lonely night

I will love you when I can't,
And even when I go on rants

I will love you in every way
For the rest of every day.
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