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Miranda Wang Oct 2013
I.
you’ve never felt
this small
before and you’re not quite sure
where to begin.

II.
“we are only a blink
in the timeline of the universe.”
our existence, our planet
is turning every minute.
i drag my feet walking
down side streets.

III.
tick tock, tick
tock.

IV.
so maybe you think
time will pass in an instant,
but on my cosmic calendar
we’ll be together
for weeks.

V.
i am stuck in a moment,
your being is all i need.
your existence is greater
than you think; more than just knee-deep.
and my heart swells with the space
that you occupy.

VI.
you tell me life is fast --
faster than cooking the ramen noodles
we used to eat together in the park
on Sunday afternoons -- faster than
anything I have ever seen before -- faster
than I can comprehend.
and what’s the point
if you can’t stop
and smell the rose bushes?

i picked the thorns off for you.

VII.
i am trying to find you,
blinded by the miles between us.
and i feel vulnerable when i can’t see.
and you feel as numb as a dozed
off limb.
but even the feeling
of pins and needles will subside;
blood flow returns, like i will
to you.

VIII.
you are not a cosmic insignificance.
you exist in so many ways—
do you really think i could so easily
forget the taste
of sweetness?
you make
vinegar taste like apple juice;
i drink cup
after cup.
Miranda Wang Sep 2013
My dad used to tell me
That waking up in the middle of the night
meant missing the old house that we once lived in,
although I never remembered exactly
the bricks lining the windows, or the carpet
I set on fire when I was six.

I don’t know what I was thinking back then.
I can never remember too much of my past.  
The trees, and the bees, the fleas on my neighbor’s dog:
All memories buried, gathering dust, hidden in the fog
of the here and now. Like a haze, it filters through my vision
and I am not fast enough to see anything as it flies by.

I remember the bird that you caught in your hands, the flapping wings
and the sound of its echoing rang through the cul-de-sac and my ears.
I remember closing the glass door on your fingers, and I remember how I cried too.
That night I tried to talk to you through the vents, like how we used to, like how
we combined our efforts to catch a glimpse of real magic, of Santa Claus,
of me by your bedside but you thought it was a dream.
We dug up rocks, and sticks, and hid in the shed that broke my front tooth.
And that wasn’t the last time I’ve bit my tongue.

I said, “I did it on purpose,” but I lied.
I didn’t know what it meant back then and
I wish that you would believe me. I wish the memories stuck,
like the pieces of tape you pressed against my skin,
preventing the fake wounds from reopening.  

Can you see me now, in your lucid dreams?
Or am I just a shadowy figure floating between scenes?
Excerpts of memories will find me like déjà vu.
And when you’re thinking of me, know I’m thinking of you.
Miranda Wang Aug 2013
he told me that we were
as crossed in the stars as suicide love;
and to be honest, it's starting to feel that way.
that day, Hope, I couldn't avoid her-
clutching only to find her bleeding out
on the bathroom floor.

this is how it always starts.

and here i am again,
feeling inadequate about my poetry.
my words are lined like trees: unforgiving,
wooden.

what if you could see me now?

now, with a purpose. i know i make
you nervous.
i remember when you told me you feared God
and i used to think you were so **** poetic
looking at me, so **** pathetic looking at me.

he told me he was addicted.

the way people can be addicted
to sadness is like how the body tries to maintain
homeostasis. but for me,
the potential of change ignites in haste, yet-

i am sick of recycled air; i am sick of the taste.

i could say i was sick of you but
we both know that'll never be true.
Miranda Wang Jul 2013
the days you couldn't get out of bed
were the days he was full of birds
in his stomach; fluttering wings and
sharp beaks pulling for validation.

and the hummingbird in your heart never stops going off
when you've trained it this well, because even a bird
can fall in love with its cage
if it's beautiful enough;
stockholm syndrome in its raw disgust.

impulsivity never came naturally
for him, perfection was
his answer to thoughts smelling
like recycled air and suffocation.

but you,
you would rip all the sheets off
and you could always tell when there was something off
when there was something i've lost,
and never knew that it was you
growing around my bones like moss.

or maybe more like poison ivy
by the way you expected so much from me
and i couldn't stop the both of us
from falling off the rollercoaster you
refused to get off of.

so now that i know,
i won't let you become my demise
because a ******* once told me;
"Anticipation is always stronger
than surprise."
Miranda Wang Jul 2013
Some things I cannot resist; I blame my own self worth.
I got shot in a dream once...it didn't hurt.
The apple is never as sweet
as the whispered words that slither out of your mouth.

Still moonstruck, still insane,
You throw me straight into the flame.,
and I like the burn
enough to go back for seconds.

Because even though I don't owe you anything,
I feel an obligation, like muscle memory
it falls out my open mouth, gasping
to remember the last few fragments
of the nightmare you woke me from.

So here's to biting off more than you can chew,
and having no regrets about finding yourself
cracked beneath the covers, and disarrayed
among the reflections of mistakes already made.

Maybe I needed this
reality check. I'm on my own, I know.
The temporal frustrates me, the birds
fly south for the winter, I fly...nowhere.
Permanence is a dream as fleeting as
its own contradiction.
It makes no sense, but what did I
expect from you?

Do you remember the nights
we laid across each others ankles
to see if either would break under
the weight of the other?

These fractured bones
don't mean a thing. (promise)
Miranda Wang Jun 2013
Today, something new-
I didn't dream about you.
*coeur pas entendre
Miranda Wang Jun 2013
there are too many disgusting things
about human beings, i know,
and i am
still young.

crushed lips and bruised hips
have faltered me;
i once thought soft flesh was beautiful
until your skin grew rough
around
the edges.

so maybe now
i am just used to you.
like how i always reach
to the right of the sink,
except
there is nothing
poetic about
the orientation of your bathroom.

after all, we spend so much time in there;
me kneeling over porcelain judgement,
you sitting
and watching
me, too familiar now to hold back my hair.

too familiar now,
you know me so well,
i can no longer be
that ethereality
that floats in your dreams
and keeps you happy.

there is something disturbing
about being around someone who
can see all your human flaws:
skin too fair and unbrushed hair,
lying to say it's better this way.

it's better this way, they like to convince you
that it's true or maybe they just want to prompt
acceptance but
why should i settle for
less than perfection
of something i've dreamt of
my entire life?

this isn't poetic.
this isn't beautiful.
stop kidding yourself,
you are
only human.
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