i had these dreams for a while
after that night.
you said my eyes were pretty
while we laid in bed
and i tell you
that i have
"you're so beautiful"
i'm so very shy.
you leave in the
morning and i
drift away to
you in my
the next night
i dreamed we
each other. your
begun to twist
and turn beside
me. you morphed
into trauma and
up my arms
and i can't
when i wake up
my chest hurts
i curse my brain
and i miss
it went on like that
for a few weeks.
i guess this is
this is super rough, didn't proof read it a ton but i want to post it
being with you is such a pleasant feeling
i'm scared to write poems about us
you're so precious
i don't want to
might make this into another poem
i'm so angry -
my face is pale,
an empty canvas
i want something.
fill the void between
i destroy myself remembering
times where my glasses were still broken.
bed sheets always stained with spelt wine
as drunk lovers stumbling into my bed -
they lean the bottle into my small hands,
keeping the mattress wet.
the red is nothing
smothering all over me.
no one is looking this way.
hungry gods play with hot glue,
pressing eyes like wrought iron
into my nerves - tearing
the ends apart to justify the means,
as if i don't know people leave when
you're down to your last layer of skin.
the world i sleep in
tastes of fog water
and i can never
catch a breath
with old opened
*** to drag my
self to the sink:
water onto my
who the **** is that?
revised a two year old poem!!!!!
summer quietly creaks open the back door
slips from beneath your skin
as you stare down from the
attic, living in
it's gone before you can
remember what warmth even is.
sadness warps an old yellow novel
you used to love, holding it close
as it twists and moans.
best chapter out
it belongs to
revision of old poem
I am from a hungry sun unsated
from sewer smoke and old trees
I am an eviction notice swept
into yesterday’s trash.
(but it’s okay,
nothing lasts forever:
everything is changing
and the sidewalk tastes
of past lives.)
I am from burnt coral pine needles -
dug into the soil
clawing, rooting into
forever in a dream
an old static VCR loop
where we stayed
I am from old
weeping in the
couch made of wine stains
home made of humans
forest of suns -
(there are faces
and burning meteors
in a shoebox
made of steel.
I keep it this way,
so we’re always
the sequence is always
lurking on the tip
of my tongue:
vintage film that
tastes like bottom
three eight year olds hover on the front lines,
each in their own corner of forest. an older
boy throws his rusty longsword
with a frustrated, huffling yell into the
blackwater. a summer god doused in
sun dips an ear into the stratosphere
and listens through the trees, his
presence crawling through the dirt
as he watches the three children
fight lovingly against each
three cousins draw a
treaty in the mud. they’re unsure on
the details. their hunched forms
murmur against the sunset. they meet between
tree forts. they hate each other a little bit still,
though they’re not entirely sure why. the sword
of the blackwater is a rusty pipe:
sleeping in liquid tar,
tangled in seagrass.
we finish our alliance written in mud.
fingers later smell of pine smoke
and homegrown moss.
three explorers linger on over
trembling planks of crimson
wood, peering through the
docks. they seek a longsword
made of backwoods and amethyst,
dozing somewhere in the murky water.
i don’t think i
could pull it out).
(like some kind
of fantasy novel)
we tip toe across miry sand
and velvet rockweed. (small
fish probably sleep in it now).
we give up, and every summer
i scrutinize the cloudy water:
nothing there but sunfish
and unresolved tension.
before the war we swam beneath
the crimson planks and we were
mermaids, pirates, knights - all
at once and one at a time. the
years blend together and we
hate each other in different
ways. now we’re so old (none
of us taller than the sword
still). we’re never here at
the same time anymore,
and the summer god may not
have his ear to the earth
as he did so long
i hear three eight year olds
back at the docks, voices rising
from beneath warm obsidian.
there’s yelling through a dense
thicket: we’re screaming our
heads off - (they roll into the water,
turning into fish made of sunset
and memory). some summer god
somewhere rolls over in bed.
we listen in our daydreams
for another battle cry, galumphing
through shallows and ocean shores
until we surrender, making ourselves
forget about swords and tree forts
made of earth and twine.
yet i still hear three eight year olds
howling their heads off
somewhere in the back
of my mind, arguing in
over who had won
im a poetry major now :)
you breathe in tender dragon smoke–
under the sheets; I’m made of alchemy.
some summer second skin clothes.
drinking me in a 200 milligram dose,
a sweet taste in my mouth that forms a cavity
as you breathe in tender, dragon smoke.
jokingly, you laugh and it rolls into “I’m off the coke.”
it hurts, but I guess that now it’s your mortality.
some summer. second skin clothes
that remind me I’m in bed and alone.
forget it all, radical acceptance, comfort insecurity.
you breathe. in tender dragon smoke.
you tell me that you think I’ve grown.
I smile secretly, my blood is gold. is reality –
some summer, second skin clothes?
feels closer, even though we’re on the phone.
to you I hope this is a keychain of me,
some summer second skin clothes.
you breathe in a tender dragon smoke.