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Apr 2017 · 444
cliche death poem #1.
kaitlyn-marie Apr 2017
I've spent the better part of the last month
trying to reconstruct our last night --
the last time that the five of us were together.
I want to box up the sound of our laughter
so loud that it was probably keeping my parents awake.

I want to tie it up with a bow
and keep it in my nightstand
for when the nights get longer and the songs get slower
and I can't remember how much taller you are than me anymore.

Three years ago, I called my brother while the four of you were together.
The phone was passed from ear to ear until it got to you.
Without missing a beat, you hung up on me...
and didn't answer when I called back.

I remember thinking that
I didn't know it was possible
for somebody to make you mad in a good way.
Aug 2016 · 397
helioscopus.
kaitlyn-marie Aug 2016
I spent my last night in Tennessee at your house.
We ate dinner in your front yard
so that the cars could watch us
as they drove by.

You said,
you're rarely as burned out
as you think you are.


Last night I counted the states between here and Montana,
thinking back to that night
I wished away everything in the April sky
so that you could shine the brightest.
May 2016 · 350
Ahlquist v Cranston
kaitlyn-marie May 2016
On Sunday mornings they’d grab us by the shoulders
and stare into our eyes until
we repeated those universal truths —
what goes up much come down,
He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit,
even Satan knows
that he’s out there.
May 2016 · 1.6k
the beauty pageant question.
kaitlyn-marie May 2016
here’s
what they don’t tell you in sunday school.
no matter if you make it to heaven or hell,
you could still be sitting next to the school shooter
depending on whether or not he prays
to the right god.

my father always said
that if he meets jesus, he’ll apologize.
“sorry
man, I didn’t know. if it’s any consolation,
I believe in you now.”

two weeks ago
a friend grabbed my steering wheel
and she turned me into the next lane.
she believes in god
more than she believes in saying sorry.

we always tell each other
that the murderers are going to hell.
is this wishful thinking?
or are we just incapable of thinking
that we’re going to share our heavenly space
with somebody who stole lives.

even if I didn’t know it then,
these thoughts
might just be the reason
that I used to get panic attacks
when I thought about heaven.
I’ve always been a restless soul
and being stuck somewhere forever
was never
my style.
May 2016 · 292
nocturn.
kaitlyn-marie May 2016
This could be your final lap around the Sorry board.
The moment when the German man chokes you on the Acela Express.
Skin kisses skin
crossing cheeks, pecking noses.
Before your vision blackens,
you see the blurring of blues and greens:
Live action bruising for the eggshell queen.
Mar 2016 · 321
nocturn.
kaitlyn-marie Mar 2016
This is the part where life cracks open.
The final lap around the Sorry board,
the moment where a German man
chokes you on the Subway.
Your throat closes but your heart opens up
and there are bees in there.
General Mills was wondering where they went.

Skin kisses skin
crossing cheeks, pecking noses.
The breadth between ‘be my shadow’ and ‘enough for now.’

Blow out the candles if you’re listening God,
we need a little flicker here.
Mar 2016 · 778
on the place du forum.
kaitlyn-marie Mar 2016
Some people say that Vincent van Gogh used to eat yellow paint
in order to make himself happy.
Others say that he was shot accidentally
by two teenage boys.
So maybe he didn’t need that yellow paint after all.

The scholars and the experts say that
these things aren’t true.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe van Gogh liked the color yellow because he was
on a prescription that made him see the world
through yellow glasses
every time he opened his eyes.
Maybe van Gogh liked yellow because
it was everything he wasn’t.

Maybe van Gogh just liked yellow.
Mar 2016 · 644
self-help.
kaitlyn-marie Mar 2016
I’ll start out by saying that my parents don’t like us to label ourselves.
They don’t like us to share them either.

As a child it used to take me at least two hours to fall asleep.
Thoughts would race through my head like boxcars.
I would repeat what I was excited about the most
until my brain would get tired enough to let me rest.
Some doctors would call that insomnia, but that’s not what I had.

Since the age of six, I haven’t believed in god.
His existence always felt like a fairytale
that adults never grew out of.
Some people would call this atheism, but that’s not what I have.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been worried.
Every event in my day was cause for panic.
I would string them along like paper chains
with no rest in between.
Some doctors call that anxiety, but that’s not what I have.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t pick at my skin.
I’ll rip off pieces until my skin gets mad
and bleeds red with anger.
Some doctors would call that dermatillomania, but that’s not what I have.

Since middle school, I’ve been afraid of germs.
I won’t touch my face without washing my hands first
which makes it take twice as long to put on makeup.
I can’t eat without sanitizing my hands
which makes people skeptical to get to know you better.
Some doctors would call that germaphobia, but that’s not what I have.

When I was fifteen my throat used to close up
every time I thought about death.
Sometimes you don’t realize you’re breathing until you’re gasping for air.
Some doctors call that a panic attack, but that’s not what I had.

I’ve been on antidepressants for three years
in order to calm down my brain
from running too many marathons.
My heart was never able to catch up.
Some doctors might say that this is because I was depressed.
But that’s not what I have.

My therapist told me…
— ****, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.

Somebody told me to come here today so that
I could be honest to myself and others
about the problems that don’t have names.
The words that I can’t say out loud.

I’m hoping with this discussion
I will someday be able to say that
I used to not be able to fall asleep for hours.
I used to not believe in god, I used to worry all the time.
That I no longer pick at my skin.
I’m no longer afraid of germs.
My throat used to close up,
and I’m no longer on antidepressants.

Because I have problems that can't be labelled.
kaitlyn-marie Mar 2016
father blank be thy name.
thy will follow the script,
thy must be kind.
on earth as it is in heaven.
give us this Christmas our yearly word
and forgive us our hypocriticalness
as we judge others before we repent ourselves.
tell us not of our faults,
rather teach us the ways to earn our tickets
as allegiance is not forced, it is learned.
for thine is the bread and the wine and the whiskey too
for ever and ever
amen.
Mar 2016 · 223
on monday
kaitlyn-marie Mar 2016
someone suggested that we pick a word to repeat.
hers was "breathe."

I think I might choose cad-dy-whomped.
it reminds me of the sound a train makes
when it's rushing down the tracks.

it'll give my mind something to sing it to sleep.
Feb 2016 · 360
unpassages from therapy
kaitlyn-marie Feb 2016
at age six, I told the god that I didn't believe existed
that I wasn't going to wish him happy birthday anymore.

these days we come full circle:
I spent my eleventh birthday
with death behind my eyes and a best friend that wouldn't call.

on my thirteen and a quarter birthday
I spent my day dreaming with the sun.
at 11:33 PM, I hand-wrote a will
and hid it in my drawer so that
my parents would know who should get my
babysitting money and the naked American Girl Doll
with the dislocated leg.

these days we come full circle:
I spent my twentieth year
having nightmares that my dad killed my brother.
my mom was flying the helicopter --
we were watching them from above and
she wouldn't let me save him.
all I could do was pray that he wouldn't get
****** into the nothingness
that I was destined for.
Feb 2016 · 221
one hundred years.
kaitlyn-marie Feb 2016
my:  favorite color has always been gray, even though my
mother:  never believed me. she
says:  that this isn’t normal for a nine year old. colors like
these:  hint at your mental state. the
things:  I thought about at night made me go into a panic.
“are:  you going to die in your sleep tonight? should you write a last will and testament just in case?” I felt
like:  my heart was trying to jump up out of my throat. my cheeks would turn
red:  and I would put my head between my legs to steady my breathing. I would try to take my mind off of the finality of it all by thinking of anything else — the
diamonds:  that nobody would ever give me, how good medium
rare:  steak tastes as it melts in your mouth
and:  how
precious:  it is that my little brother is still my biggest fan.
and:  how does one have a moral compass if god isn’t at the center moving the arrow? — by believing that you’ll have a
beautiful:  and fulfilling life if you treat other people beautifully.
kaitlyn-marie Feb 2016
I had leaps and bounds picked for me you see.
plums with their crow’s foot skin
those tiny sour grapes and their toddler arms
hugging the waist of their own mother
because they weren’t yet big enough
to make it on their own.
all for the love of parents
who refused to pledge me to the catholic church
in preparation for their wedding in ’89.
and what’s the point of children
if not to make them soldiers?
Jan 2016 · 3.0k
the beauty pageant question
kaitlyn-marie Jan 2016
here’s
what they don’t tell you in sunday school.
no matter if you make it to heaven or hell,
you could still be sitting next to the elementary school shooter
depending on whether or not he prays
to the right god.

my father always said
that if he meets jesus, he’ll apologize.
“sorry,
man I didn’t know. if it’s any consolation,
I believe in you now.”

two weeks ago
a friend grabbed my steering wheel
and she turned me into the next lane.
she believes in god
more than she believes in saying sorry.

if I ever prove her wrong and
meet god, I’ll ask him
if he watches over malala
and why he had to let
those three children
get hit with a semi truck on the way home from the fair.
giving their parents triplets
of the same gender as before
wasn’t good enough
even if oprah called it a miracle.

we always tell each other
that the murderers are going
to h-e-double hockey sticks.
is this wishful thinking?
are we just incapable
of picturing adolf with a pair of angel wings?

even if I didn’t know it then,
these thoughts
might just be the reason
that I used to get panic attacks
when I thought about heaven.
I’ve always been a restless soul
and being stuck somewhere forever
was never
my style.
Jan 2016 · 1.2k
dermatillomania.
kaitlyn-marie Jan 2016
on monday mornings we used to grab each other’s arms
and trace lines from the wrist to the shoulder,
trying to guess when we got touched in the middle.
since our eyes were closed, nobody
had to see my fingers.
pick, rip.
there’s always a name for what plagues you
and mine tasted the same
as charlie brown’s unrequited love.
the only thing that tasted worse
was the word that we couldn’t say out loud.
but on sunday bright and early
they’d grab us by the shoulders
and stare into our eyes until
we repeated those universal truths
what goes up must come down,
don’t swim right after you eat,
even satan knows
that there’s something out there.
Sep 2015 · 647
goonies
kaitlyn-marie Sep 2015
love is carrot launching off the third floor balcony
replacing underwear with oranges
sitting in a circle ten wide playing Mafia
dancing to Steely Dan in the kitchen
pool rafts and cousins and DCOMs
father’s day watching golf on TV with oldies music dance parties
everything but the kitchen sink trail mixes
popsicle parties and two different colors of eye shadow
photoshoots with best friends and “Elephant” on vinyl
secret sharing with sisters on bunk beds
your best friend writing you a poem called “Sail On Silver Girl”
dancing to “Round Here” in the living room when dad came home
matching t shirts and coming home
barefoot drinking black coffee with the windows open
October air and the smell of apples with a hint of cinnamon
singing “rivers and roads” by the fire on the beach with the fireworks
your dad’s friends handing you beers because their own daughters wont drink them
holding hands with somebody you’ve never met before at church
tri-state Netflix movie nights
your grandpa noticing that your eye makeup is different
hearing “poor man’s son” live and acapella
the movie Fired Up and how it never gets old
love is the sound of laughter and never saying uncle .
kaitlyn-marie Mar 2015
I spoke too soon again,
I've changed my mind.
some worlds just aren't meant to collide.
I opened the bottle and you overdrank,
but, then again, your twenty first
birthday was yesterday.
Mar 2015 · 763
tilt-a-whirl.
kaitlyn-marie Mar 2015
I watched a scary movie
the night silver girl ran away
because I knew nothing could scare me
any more.
kaitlyn-marie Jan 2015
when I was nine, my brother Tommy and I used to walk by old South Bend Sammy on our way home from Sunday school. I used to give him half of my allowance every other Sunday, because I figured that was what God intended.

Sammy would send me inside of the neighborhood grocery store to buy him some sterno for a buck 50. I always wondered what he could possibly have to cook, with him being homeless and all.
I never asked him, but every other week, as promised, there I was delivering the sterno.

when I asked my daddy, he told me that old South Bend Sammy was cooking his insides. “that stuff’ll **** em one day, so don’t go wastin’ your money on a man like that,” he said, but I did it anyway.

when I was eleven, old South Bend Sammy was found dead on his corner. He died on Christmas day. Bobby Richardson, who was in the eleventh grade, told us that he saw the body before they carted em off. Said his uncle killed em accidentally when he threw his cigarette **** on the ground by Sammy's feet. Poor old Sammy was burned like someone was fixin’ to make a barbeque.

but Lisa Jameson’s daddy was a cop, and he said that old Sammy died from an old fashioned case of a heat poisoning.
“I didn’t know that heat could poison you” I asked my daddy later that night. “darlin’, it can if you drink it.”
this was inspired by Bukowski's poem "canned heat." I looked into it, and it turns out that homeless people in Philadelphia used to use Sterno as a cheap substitute for alcohol. In 1963, 31 people died because of the consumption of "canned heat."
kaitlyn-marie Jan 2015
my cousin started hoarding all of my things.
she has my old iphone cases even though she's six.
she almost took a necklace from me, but I stood my ground
for the first time in a long time and I told her that
that stupid piece of jewlery had sentimental value.
she helped me search my dresser drawers for a new chain.
she can't quite see over the kitchen counter, but **** is she smart.
she's the kind of girl who can tell if you're bullshitting her,
but she still believes in fairytales.
she will hug you on the couch when she knows that you need it
and watch your favorite childhood movies with you,
even though she makes you fast forward through the scary parts
and I am so lucky to love her.

when I was five, I met my best friend
in the back of a kindergarten classroom.
we have matching clothes even though
she was morally against that until I came along
and she will cater to your musical needs
even when she's the one who's driving.
we want to **** each other when we go on road trips,
but ****, is she smart.
I don't know if she still believes in fairytales,
but I think that she might be my soulmate.
she will buy you lipstick that she thinks will look good on you
and makes sure that you get home okay,
even though you've only been separated
for ten minutes anyway
and I am so lucky to love her.
Dec 2014 · 931
over coffee and key lime.
kaitlyn-marie Dec 2014
my aunt told me that the good thing about pain
is that you can remember it after it's gone,
but you can never recreate the feeling.
I think this is why I kept going back for more.
kaitlyn-marie Dec 2014
there's nothing worse
than being deemed uninhabitable
by the people with the power
to light fires in your soul.
Nov 2014 · 307
migrane, pt 2.
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
I am yelling "I'm different."
please paint my contents.
look behind my shipwrecked mind.
find such violent tidal waves I know that I can fight.
I stay alive.
this is a blackout poem, using the song lyrics to twenty one pilots' "migrane."
Nov 2014 · 362
migrane.
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
my pain will always cause thunderstorms.
sometimes death represents suspense.
its ruthless, depressing thoughts
will let me sleep when I'm dead.
this is a blackout poem, using the song lyrics to twenty one pilots' "migrane."
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
complacency will be the death of me.
run full speed ahead as I catch
the northbound bus to Portland,
whispering "aha, we meet again,"
as a way of keeping me on my toes.
get my adrenaline pumping,
use your british accent
to make me lose control.
I need to inject some excitement
in through my arm, and you'll be
the one to do it.
these things can be done cheaply
and they can be done often.
I was inspired by one of these craiglist ads.
http://www.businessinsider.com/11-absolutely-bizarre-craigslist-ads-2013-8?op=1
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
listen here, scarecrow. that might be her sign
that she's meant to be here, and who's to say that she's wrong?
she had hell handed to her with her eggs and her bacon,
but she still believes in good karma.
girls like that will leave you praying for a cold spell
in the back seat of their range rover,
even though you're sure as **** not going to
treat her any differently in the morning.
in sunday school, they grabbed us by the shoulders
and stared into our eyes until we
repeated those universal truths:
what goes up must come down,
don't swim right after you eat,
even satan believes that there's something out there.
Nov 2014 · 502
hipster goddesses are born.
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
in the center of Jersey, I think of his breath.
how his chest expands and contracts
and stops moving all together when he thinks of her bones.

all the girls with the monogrammed backpacks
and their cookie cutter smiles
were plucked from galaxies,
while I was dug up from the ground.

he’s taking her like she’s medicine,
and people aren’t made that way.
there she sits, idle.
coughing up her own ****** lungs
like there’s some sort of return policy,
I can tell. after all, that girl was once me.
I loosely based this poem off of "Autumn Begins in Martins Ferry, Ohio" by James Wright. I had to do it for class.
Nov 2014 · 227
stolen.
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
he's taking you like you're medicine
and people aren't made that way.
Nov 2014 · 358
this is my costume.
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
that shade of lipstick made you bolder my dear.
the eyeliner put you in the direction you're supposed to go.
there's still time to veer off the right path
for the one that makes you feel more whole.
your mother's eyes might scream "I told you so,"
but that's all just talk. you're golden. I swear, you're golden.
Nov 2014 · 878
the comeback kid.
kaitlyn-marie Nov 2014
baseball games and lingerie
will only keep him around for so long.
sooner or later, you're going to have to give him
something that he can hold with both hands.
but for now, you'll bide your time;
coughing up your own ****** lungs
like there is some sort of return policy.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
a hot shower might drown out the sound
of her screams, but it won’t drown you.
you tell her that you’d sooner march
straight down to hell than feed the liars in her soul.
through tears, she replies that even though they say
that lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice,
you get her every single time.
Oct 2014 · 422
kindling.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
my sister has fire in her fingertips;
she might burn you, but she swears
she’ll keep you warm at night.
there’s a long list of boys
that she will kiss by the end of October,
**** on her tongue before you even learn their names.
she scars them with her lips licked with flames,
and they catch the heat in their throats
so their hearts won’t burn.
it’s just like grandmother always said
while the water boiled in the kitchen;
hold your own, hold your own, hold your own.
Oct 2014 · 277
ledges.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
I'm extremely hard to love
unless you're being forced to,
but I swear that I'll try my best
to make it worth your while.
Oct 2014 · 979
close knit.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
most of my house is contained on one floor;
my mother can't move like she used to.
she can never keep the moles and gophers
from eating her garden, but she tries anyway.
the look of accomplishment painted on her face
when she picks her own tomatoes is worth the struggle.
it makes my best friend feel at home.

my father buys new kitchen appliances
and turns to home improvement when i'm out of town.
I always joke that these things fill the void.
he has a wine cellar and a bar in our basement
that we use once a month because he likes to show his friends.
it's just another way to prove that he knows everything.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
“I will give you rest,” I said. sometimes, you get impatient and you just want to hold some people longer than others.

“I will give you rest,” I said. she will be tanner there, the sun illuminating all of her perfections.

“I will give you rest,” I said. dreaming is just a preview of what is to come. my home is no place for nightmares. that’s what my brother is for.

“I will give you rest,” I said. I know that she is scared, but the other side is greater than anything she could ever imagine.

“I will give you rest,” I said. she is too precious for a world like this; too fragile. she is forever mine, and I have to take her.

“I will give you rest,” I said. it is time.

she gives in to the silence because it will be her home longer than the twelve year’s she’s spent chasing the sun.
Matthew 11:28 ; “come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
“come to me,” he said. in this hospital ward, we are all plagued by the same fate. there he sits, writing us off one by one; a cancer in his own right.

“come to me,” he said. the doctors remind me that the bright lights are harsh on any skin tone, and mine is no exception.

“come to me,” he said. will it hurt? will it be like dreaming?

“come to me,” he said. you’ve already taken so many. why do I have to be one of them? why now?

“come to me,” he said. I don’t want to leave; I never want to leave. regardless, he will be the second cancer to take me.

“come to me,” he said. it was time.

I give in to the silence because it will be my home longer than the twelve year’s I’ve spent chasing the sun.
Matthew 11:28 ; “come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
Oct 2014 · 353
disgraces.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
gas stations and vintage t shirts
and never saying “die,” I think
you stole the sun’s shine with
the sparkle in your eyes.
Oct 2014 · 287
somewhere like manhattan.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
it’s a **** good thing that I’ll never kiss you,
because I think that my heart
would jump out of my chest.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
I never believed in any sort of higher power,
but when I saw the color of your eyes, I thought
that, just maybe, I was wrong all along.
Oct 2014 · 406
all earthly harm, pt 2
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
“fear thou not,” I whispered as she put on her makeup. she was just as beautiful without it, but she didn’t believe it.

“fear thou not,” I whispered as she slipped on the red dress. she decides that the red of the fabric will soak up the red of her blood and all will be well.

“fear thou not,” I said as her mother told her that she’d see her later. little did she know, this was the last time that she’d see her daughter’s bright fleeting eyes: wide open and sparkling against the summer sun.

“fear thou not, I bellowed as she climbed to the top of her apartment complex. as she admired the pretty Portland sunset, I thought, just for a moment, that she might change her mind.

“fear thou not,” I bellowed as she breathed in for the very last time. she must hear me. she has to hear me. why isn’t she listening?

“fear thou not,” I whispered into the wind as she fell into the infinite nothingness that would soon become her. I tried my best. heaven knows you can’t save them all. my right hand can’t hold her anymore.
Isaiah 41:10 ; “fear thou not; for I am with the: be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”
Oct 2014 · 299
the dangerous drug.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
there’s a long list of boys that she will kiss
by the end of October, **** on her tongue
before you even learn their names.
Oct 2014 · 468
oh frances, 1929.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
It’s the color of her dress the day that you first met her
“I’m not bold enough to wear purple,” she said.

It’s the color of the smoke that comes out of your ears when her touch sets you on fire.

It’s the color of the sweatshirt she stole from you freshman year of college and never gave back.

It’s the faded color of the asphalt beneath your feet on 7th street where you proposed.

It’s the color of the dog that you share. You wanted to name him Ash, but she said that would be taking the easy way out.

It's the color of her matching bra and underwear set. Every woman deserves to have one in her favorite color.

It’s the color of the blanket that you wrapped around her when it was too cold in your bedroom.

It’s the color of her eyes if you look closely enough. Although they got this way because of old age, you still think that they are just rare enough to make her beautiful.

It’s the color of her hair as she is lowered into the ground: breathless and leaving you behind.

It’s the color of the cloud over your head when you wake up to an empty bed every morning and remember that she’s never coming home.

It’s the color of the sky when it spits at you, reminding you that life without her is as pointless as an umbrella when it’s too windy outside.

It’s not the color of your breath when you exhale for the last time. In that moment, you were yellow.
Oct 2014 · 410
with a "y."
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
I spent my teenage years as an umbrella.
you wouldn’t open me up inside,
you only needed me for protection.
when it wasn’t raining, you set me aside:
at the bottom of messy school lockers
and the back seat of your car
with the promises you would never keep.
Oct 2014 · 433
all earthly harm.
kaitlyn-marie Oct 2014
“fear thou not,” he whispered as I put on my makeup so that I would look as pretty as I did the night that he first kissed me.

“fear thou not,” he whispered as I slipped on the red dress, to ensure that no one would be bothered with a costume change.

“fear thou not,” he said as I stumbled through the “I’ll see you later sweethearts” and the “we’re having pasta for dinners.”

“fear thou not,” he bellowed as I climbed to the top of our apartment complex. sunsets always were my favorite.

“fear thou not,” he bellowed as I breathed in for the very last time, taking in the smell of the flowers that were surrounding me. Portland was always pretty this time of year.

“fear thou not,” he whispered into the wind as I fell into the infinite nothingness. but I didn’t want his pity. his right hand can’t hold me anymore.
Isaiah 41:10 ; “fear thou not; for I am with the: be not dismayed, for I am thy God. I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”
Sep 2014 · 305
some sort of autobiography.
kaitlyn-marie Sep 2014
I have fire in my fingertips;
I might burn you, but I swear
I'll keep you warm at night.
kaitlyn-marie Sep 2014
I don’t know if I believe
in love at first sight,
but I definitely felt something
when I first saw you.
Sep 2014 · 269
mostly.
kaitlyn-marie Sep 2014
I’m being haunted
by the boy in the third row,
but I don’t see any ghosts.
kaitlyn-marie Sep 2014
I could write poems
about your point of view
and songs about your smile,
but you won’t give me your time.
Sep 2014 · 1.3k
the carpenter.
kaitlyn-marie Sep 2014
the worst thing about loving
the sound of someone’s voice
is that you end up looking for it
in every room you walk into,
even though you know that voice
will never wake you up in the morning.
Sep 2014 · 347
his name is trouble.
kaitlyn-marie Sep 2014
she puts on a little more makeup before class,
even though she knows that he won’t notice
anyway. she’s sure to put on that shade
of lipstick that her thirteen year old cousin
Sarah says is a work of art, even though it’s not
going to make him want to kiss her any more than
he did the day before.  she’s not too sure if she’s
doing it for him or if she’s doing it for her.
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