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sweaty hands over the phone -
we're never nervous, just anxious
to see each other
through words.

i've always been a bit awkward.
so have you. together i think
i am more bold. you'd argue,
if you were awake right now.
i know i am the world to you.

because you are the world to me.
i'll keep writing these sappy
poems to you, holding our
anxious hands 200 miles away

you stay with me on the phone
i listen to you sleep
right now i know
i'm not alone.
bad bad bad but wanted to write as soon as possible
spine tingles
and cracks
a Goddess
somewhere
finds me in
a crystal ball

i howl at the
empty sky
hoarse scream
into a single
star

some meaning
must come of
all this

or i'll just be
a yowling
ragged
cat
in the yard.
working on my word flow and word choice specifically. might edit soon.
summer sinks
some forgotten
black polaroids
into my back
pocket

one is the sunset
though one can't tell
it looks like a home
for shadows

two is the water
a memory beneath my fingers
lingering like a ghost of
childhood i'd rather hold
onto while letting go.

three is all of us in the
moonlit night, drinking
cider to the crackle of fire
(my favorite channel)
while some part of me
curses a polaroid camera
loudly
and smiles

cliche summer poem
satiated present self
a long sweater swallows
up clumsy legs

i cling onto
the snapshots
lovingly

someone somewhere
sneezes and thinks of me
not where we should be
but content just to
remember;

softly,
        into the night
i'm trying to write one poem a day. i am a poet, though i haven't felt like one in so long. i feel like i incorporated a lot of elements from the poetry studies class i'm in right now
it’s november when
the meds kick in, it’s
december when i feel
human again. (or maybe,
for the first time?)

i lack less.
found an appreciation
for something or another
dug up in the front yard
by a half-blind dog.
appreciation for
the living
and the
quiet
small
moments.

i used to know empathy,
used to take her hands
between mine in
cut scenes
but those were
   trembling eras
    of seconds,
    caught between
  an intensity i’ve since
        given     away.

an inferno.

of being
in love
with
wheat
grass bet-
ween
high
ways
and

last bit
of clouds
eating sun
like nectar
in the rearview:

or sweet talking
directly into his eyes
at midnight, hearing
a smile in the smoke
that separates our
houses.

cats with twigs
and dirt swimming
in their bellies.
ghosts in the
woods beyond
my car,
yowling at
the full moon
as if they
were born
to.

i now know
the silence and
warmth of
sleep.

i exist alongside
unfamiliar calm,
a quaint silence
that does not
burn at the
                 touch.





but

the world is
almost softer
            almost
                       lighter   --

my skin is
held to-
gether
with
some
thing
more
than
glue.

     (maybe
      stitches?)

i wonder
if i was
human
the whole
time.
re-wrote a poem i wrote half a year ago, i'm turning it in for a poetry class portfolio. honestly im gonna edit it again but this is the first edit for now. if i change anything major i'll probably put it here and edit it or maybe rework entirely.  who knows~~~
since the meds kicked in,
i lack less, i think.
i've found an appreciation
dug up in the front yard
by a half blind dog

an appreciation
for the living
and the
quiet
  small
moments.

before, i cared, but
those eras were
intermittent
      seconds
        cut scenes
  caught between
    the intensity i've since
            given away.

but
moments

of being
in love
with
wheat
grass bet
ween
high
ways

and

last bit
of clouds
eating sun
in the rearview:

or sweet talking
your eyes at midnight
to hear your voice
smiling in
the smoke
separating our
houses:

cats in the
woods behind
my car, yowling
at the full
moon as if
they were
born to:

the silence
and warmth
of sleep.

i exist alongside
unfamiliar calm
a small breath
but a longer pause -
no more perfect
than dollar store
cellophane

but the world
is almost
softer
and my
skin is
held to
gether
with
some
thing
more
than
glue.
temptation:
pretty boy with his
hands around my
throat, if evil is an
******
color me in
blood
and name me
'angel' or 'sweet
heart'

i'll respond to all three
pretty boy takes his
atlas hands to wrap
me in a hug just as
i start to scream
for more.

angel sweet heart
don't touch me again
only pretty boy can
see me here

temptation:
i'm bathing in it.
uh well. it is what it is. i'm in an awful mood and really overwhelmed. i'm sick of this ******* crazy cult-like people telling me they can cure my mental illness with prayer, i'm so tired of my mom telling me i'm going to hell, i'm barely living. i'm looking into inpatient programs for bpd and seeing what my insurance covers but yeah if i disappear for a week or two it's bc i need to work myself out and get better and hopefully that happens soon.
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