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 Jan 2015 Lexi Dvorak
Nickols
You know he's in love with you,
When he says you're pretty without your makeup on.

You know he's in love with you,
When he will kiss you first thing in the morning.
(Morning breath and all.)

You know he's in love with you,
When he'll support you through the worst.

You know he's in love with you,
When he'll hold back your hair
because you drank too much.

You know he's in love with you,
When you're yelling and he simply smiles because he understands.

You know he's in love with you,
When he takes your hands in his and tells you, "all will be well again."
In that moment when you need to hear it the most.

You know he's in love with you,
When he calls you beautiful, instead of something without meaning.

You know he's in love with you,
When the whole worlds stops,
because he said those three little words.

"I love you."

That's when you know he's in love with you.
I LOVE my husband!!!! <3 This is for him!

(Had to rewrite this.)
 Jan 2015 Lexi Dvorak
Lauren
Stop thinking it's romantic
to **** the girl who cries
writes poetry at 3 am
has scars cascading down her thighs.
It simply isn't beautiful
when she chews on her insides
through alcohol and cigarettes
beneath artificial light.
Don't place your hand on her lower back
pretending like it's fair.
Stop telling her it's beautiful
as she tears out her hair
bites down her every fingernail
til they're just ****** stumps.
You think you'll help by listening
with artificial love.
A knock at your door at 4 am
will surely change your mind.
"I want to **** myself tonight,
please let me in, I want to die."
 Jan 2015 Lexi Dvorak
Taylor
yes, i have other things to hold me together.

like poems that are dripping with you, and a small, shy cat who was once a stray like myself.

along with a ghostly stoner boy, who renames the colors of the rainbow and who speaks nonsense phrases, even when he's sober.

and a candle-flame girl who is covered in scars and who hides her pain in too-big hoodies, who hugs too tight and bleeds too easily and who doesn't know what a mistake falling for me will turn out to be, who draws me pictures and writes me love notes and cries into the night because she can tell that i ache for you still.

yes, you smartmouthed fool, i have other things to hold me together. but none of them are you.
Babydoll, I am so sorry. But I know myself far too well.
 Jan 2015 Lexi Dvorak
blankpoems
never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she’ll end up caring for you more than she cares about poetry
and that will mean destruction for both of you
she will compare you to the stars and the breath out of her own lungs
and she will count the minutes until she can be with you next
this is entirely troublesome, especially if you don’t feel the same way
although if you don’t, a heartache will be cause for more inspiration
I suppose love is a win win situation for writers-
fall in love, you have inspiration
fall out of it, you have inspiration

never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she will get to attached
she will love you too much
she will fall in love with the curve of your spine
and the form of your smile
and the structure of your bones
and the placement of your words on her mouth
and the way your hair falls floppily out of place
and the way you don’t love her at all

never fall in love with a writer
never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
never fall in love with me
I picture them in a balmy hallway,
far-corner huddled; quietly, urgently
comparing their notes on ways I have loved.

They'll laugh at lame jokes and avoid eye contact,
each surprised by their own awkwardness.
One of them will quip the term
'eskimo brother'
and immediately wish he hadn't.
The rest will kindly ignore it.
The moment will pass.

They will slowly shed their discomfort.
They will remove their coats.
Sweat will bloom at collars
and trace knotty bumps of spine before
pooling into the space between
boxers and belt.

They won't openly discuss the
strange comradery
that accompanies the lazy river evenings spent drifting down the same mind-
but the tension pulling across
each of their jaws
will announce loud and clear
how frustrating it has
been to be cropped,
tucked in, paper fortune teller folded
and wrapped up into someone else’s idea of poetry.


Casually
then all at once,
they will get started.
Printed pages will uncoil from backpacks,
phones will emerge from pockets
and fingers slightly shaking
will chase the letters
of my name through search engines.

My sticky poems will fan out across floorboards.
They will lower their bodies carefully, not quite kneeling,
(and without mention of the bad knees they happen to share.)
They'll hover above each piece of evidence
and their eyes will crash along titles and memories-
they'll read with raised
eyebrows and pretend as if
they don't already know
each poem, each quick dig, by heart.

When they start claiming
and denying pieces
they will do so lightly
and without judgment.
'This piece is about you and the dry, delicate
tissue-shell of skin
she held out for you after you told
her to shed.
But this piece- this piece is about me
and the messy ointment
that ruined her clothes and
stained her blankets.
A doctor instructed she
apply the ointment to her hands
twice a day to treat
the burns my silence left
across her arms and throat.'

They will share a bit of rage,
A bit of regret.
A bit of shame, perhaps.
They will either miss me intensely
or not at all.
They will either own up
to the poems they begat
or begin refuting.
They don’t want any of
this chilly weight on their soul.
I understand.

They didn’t sign up for this, I know that.
They didn’t set out to rock me,
nor to dig down deep and get to my China.
I was happy to share, to whisper and recite blurry
morning confessions and epiphanies.
I was right behind them running toward the sand dunes,
waving a shovel and pail.
But I can’t feel bad either.
You all must have known:

If you happen to fall for a girl
who writes you must realize
that every smile you put on her face,
every stray hair you’ve pushed back from her eyes,
and quick habit she starts to crave
is fair game.

If a girl who writes happens to fall for you too--
forget it.
You will find echoes of the way your souls fit and fought
together until she has nothing left to feel on the subject;
(and you must be well aware
she's tidal, her feelings are icecaps,
they are melting but will trickle fresh
and renewed for centuries to come.)
 Jan 2015 Lexi Dvorak
Meg Howell
Hazel
What a quite adorable name for an eye color
so bright
so beautiful
That's how I felt about you
And perhaps, I still do
I just wish you knew
Because, hazel eyes, all I can see is me and you
 Jan 2015 Lexi Dvorak
Hayleigh
Me?
I reached for a star
and came back with the moon.
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