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 May 2019 nat
kgl
old art.
 May 2019 nat
kgl
the words used to flow like silk through my fingertips
i used to know exactly how to weave them
make them fall into tapestries, hang them from walls
emblazoned with unadulterated innocence.

it wasn't until you asked to look at my creations
that i realised sunlight could be so damaging
my words felt frivolous under your scathing gaze
and they stuttered, crumbled. my tapestries fell.

now they're dust and i'm on my knees, crawling
grasping fistfuls that seep through my hands
you can't write about something you can't feel
and now i can't feel anything.

this is the last poem i'll write about you.
 Apr 2019 nat
heather mckenzie
i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.
 Apr 2019 nat
pluto
you wake up
his hair is spilled across the pillow,
the sun slants across his cheekbone
and his breath is slow and even.
he smells like an open field
and his body is wrapped around yours
so he keeps you warm.
you think,
there is no moment better than this,
that he is too perfect to exist.
but you wake up gasping,
skin soaked in sweat.
you lie there for a long time,
in your completely empty bed.
 Apr 2019 nat
adriana
she was the maker, he was her muse
a creative girl with everything to lose

she colored her canvas with her bleeding heart
she loved him and watched her world fall apart

she got her heart broken but kept a blank face
knowing that there are some mistakes you can't erase

she gave up her art, a lover betrayed
her pure white mind turned a darker shade.
And then there were seven.
 Apr 2019 nat
Ems
its been a week
since we last spoke.
we used to talk every single day.
its been hard not to.

you used to always say
it takes you a week to miss someone.
so here i am
a week later
praying youll tell me you miss me.

but nothing.

i sit around all day
waiting for your name to appear on my phone
with a message saying
"i miss you"
"i want you back"

but i know that will never happen.
 Apr 2019 nat
zoie marie lynn
i’ve never fallen in love before
but i’m telling you
if i did,
my bones would screech and creak and crack to build you a home that doesn’t fight back
and
i would shower you with love until you drowned because i don’t know how to love unless it becomes too much someway or somehow
and
you would become all that i breathe and need and see and the very sound of your name would be enough to cause another relapse
because i’ll get addicted too soon and too fast and you’ll think it’s great
at first
until i’m publicly on my knees aching for your velvet kisses back
and
i've never cared for someone this way before
but i'm telling you
if i did,
my lungs would collapse and inflate again and again because you will be the only thing i'll ever breathe in
and
the people in my life would never amount to you, and maybe that's a little messed up but i wrote it
felt it
bled it, so it must be true
because i don't know how to let someone in unless i push every other person out and you'll love my attention
at first
until
you're throwing glass plates at my following figure
until
you're yelling regrets and things i should've considered
until
you hate me
because you don't want to be the only one
even if i want you to be.
i’ve danced with the devil because he has the prettiest eyes i’ve ever seen in my life
but i didn’t love him
i’ve kissed the hands of god because he smells like my childhood home and i liked that a lot
but i didn’t love him
i’ve cut open my skin for my first girlfriend because she promised to stay and that drove me insane
but i didn’t love her
and i’m telling you
if i did
i would write a poem convincing her that i didn’t
because i’ve never loved in a way that doesn’t became some form of a burden.
and i don’t love you
yet
but i am going to scrub my words into your naked body and i am going to promise that there’s nobody
but you
and you are going to love every second of it
because you’ve given in to destruction and seduction and you already understand everything about pain
you already know there’s everything to lose and i’m the only thing you’d gain
but that’s okay
because you’ve never fallen in love before.
i've been beaten and bruised but nothing hurts more than you
 Apr 2019 nat
Emily Miller
My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.

— The End —