krm: Poems

krm Aug 2017

Food is tasteless,
but my bitterness is an aftertaste-
mouthwash can't cleanse.

Fragmented into pieces
in the palm of someone's hand,
the ache in slow-motion that I can't be fixed.

Never worrying about my happiness,
doing what makes everyone else feel good
leaky faucet with not enough to give
but too much to stop.

They're always talking to the next lover
and I plant kisses all on the surface of my suffering.

With My Eyes

krm Feb 2021

With My Eyes

My body is the bird
between a dog's gnashing teeth;
feathery and tossed. Potential
bruising in need of nurturing
or some ice. Even agony requires
a place to put its' head down at night.
For the comings and goings of
loveless transactions upon myself.
My body is also a broken bone,
desperate to fashion itself back together.

The whole of me--
empty pill bottle after pill bottle
hoping to fill itself up,
full of space, so capable of suffocation.
When tipped over on its' side, it's a spitting image
of the father I've only ever known
to run from anything that comes undone

I am also the snaggletooth
belonging to the woman of whom
I belong to. I have hit the radial artery
with my eyes

Bleeding out seems titillating,
but I refuse to touch my pout to
Death's puny ****. It's a danger to touch
skin-to-skin, bound to get addicted.

For fear of closeness,
for fear, we become too much alike.
My face is the same as the blood in the sink,
inspired by neglect and the old war in my head.
For fear, sour breath can't be manipulated,
for fear, we'll share the same pair of eyes.

World at War

krm May 2019

World at War

Totally peaceful beyond the hydrangeas,
Dusk is now swallowed by Earth’s mouth.
Spirit’s make their entrance, saying goodbye.
Birth of other souls, continuous.
There is strange luminous, breath in the wind.

We grasp at waves, catch the clouds passing by-
And we float, ethereal above its' parting lips.
Entrance returns, birth.

Opaque grieving, translucent during reprieve.
Tethered to this world, we think we can retrieve
its broken parts.
All our hearts out of control,
and our wounds in front.

Where dreams are chasing us.
Chasing before our lives can be more.
When does it end? When can we be anything
more than what has bent?

Beyond the hydrangeas, the moon is swollen and glowing,
soon-to-be mother to a whole new generation of lovers,
and hope is pregnant with the that thought that lessons can be learned,
and I am hopeful forgiveness can be earned.

Thinking about the world and sometimes feeling powerless that I can't make a change, but I believe we'll learn.

Writing Suicide Notes In Gel Pen

krm Jul 2018

Writing Suicide Notes In Gel Pen

Clothes have outgrown me many times over,
but this sadness never does.
One size.
fits all.
There should have been an obituary for cancer, not you.
Wishing these slits within my skin could have been
replaced by a reality check from you, “You chose to exist.”

My name causes a sigh to escape from lips,
that do not feel like they belong to me,
the girl,
whose words always had to be special.

The schematics of hospitals like a birthmark in my brain,
born into sadness, a gut feeling as a child.
Never trusting time
due to what it delivers.

Death, being the only thing I desired.
But you,
who I love,
endlessly-
robbed by it.
Whose ebb for life glowed so feverishly.
Stopped comparing depression to lace,
restricted the belief that suicide is poetic,
seeing things as they were.
More often than not, applauded for feeling emotions deeply.
Every second that dies, the shift of my heart quakes.

This world is not tender.

II. Sad.
I have known the flowers I wanted at my own premature funeral,
knowing how many bouquets honored you that day.

split open my veins like a dimension
reminiscent of days where I anticipated deathbeds.

My family wondered,
can we make it through another day?
Death scares me for what it has taken,
yet, I’m not afraid to die-
it’s all I deserve.
So I await the day pain erupts
from my throat,
acknowledging the days a soul
lived inside of my body-
footprints that walked,
belonging to me.

But I learned so well.
How to suffer with a smile,
dreading the beating of my heart
how unfair—
I don’t want to take these deep breaths
You deserved,while I masquerade as a member of the undead
Never outgrowing the desire to rot with the phantoms residing under my bed.

III. Jokes played by the universe.
punchlines delivered,
how could anyone to stand to be in the same room as myself?
How could anyone look over skyscrapers and sunsets,
and not be infatuated with concrete consuming them?
How I shared a sigh of relief during the thought-
of knowing people would thrive without me,
or the power of a belly laugh,
resembling a laugh track audience
drowning out 3 AM suicidal thoughts.

I wrote this in pink gel pen, maybe, that’s another joke.

#ramblingssadlonelydepressedidk #pain #sadnsss

Yearning

krm Jan 2019

Yearning

Yearning for the day
where a mother kissing
her child
does not break
the pieces of my heart;
I reclaim as my own.
Yearning for the hour we talk again
and you call me: ”your love"
Yearning to remember the feelings
of your hands lulling my weary mind
back into sanity.

Yearning for your lips to cover
what the past left on my arms
yearning for emerald eyes to feel like home again
Yearning for my father's heart to invite me
into his life,
yearning for "soul mates" to mean something,
the yearning that love won't always be absent

Lots of drabbling.

You

krm Jul 2018

You

YOU
pronoun | \’yu, yę also yē \

Believing in god is not enough,
when I can question the universe,
as to why someone so magnificent
is right in front of my eyes?

You’re everything and more.

#personal #definition #love #tobewithyou

“You Are Your Mother’s Child”

krm Mar 2019

“You Are Your Mother’s Child”

Why must death tarnish,
all beauty that once was?
The rose color in my cheeks wilts,
and a wreath of hospital bracelets,
looms over my head.

My existence has the desire,
to smother your heart-
in my memoriam.

Though life never felt meaningful;
babies breath did not sprout from my throat,
not every word I speak is made from beauty.

Sickness does take it’s place below my feet,
in my genes.
But the crown of thorns, cancer will one day call my name
in the moment of a better mind frame.

The loved ones who could sympathize for ulcers
in my stomach,
can justify the
malignant tumor that grows,
taking the place of a life
that I’m able to flourish in.

Cancer and mental illness. Disease.

#sad

— The End —