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May 4 · 21
Almost Soulmates
Daisy May 4
I still catch myself dreaming
in the moments between blinks,
of a better time for love to have struck me.
A better place for hurt
to have wrung me.
And I can’t help but wonder
if he also considers us unlucky.

I had always wanted to love him,
the way that he deserves,
one that’s both unconditional and sublime,
but it was ripped from my grasp;
there’s always too much pride.
Perhaps we could’ve seen beyond the risks
in another lifetime

Because he sits among my ribs
heavy against my heart,
humming along making my head twirl.
Wrapping me up,
like his hands in my curls.
And it’s a shame that we’re not soulmates;
at least not in this world.
Feb 26 · 26
Daisy Feb 26
I’ve always been a sucker for fate.
In love with the idea that the universe
has tied it's strings into knots with me in mind,
but forever skeptical of
anything that I couldn’t confirm.
How I ended up in front of a woman and her tarot cards is beyond me.

Between us is only a table,
The length of which makes a few feet feel like miles.
Distance is a funny concept,
Close enough to smell her perfume,
yet I feel
It would take an eternity for my hand to reach hers.  

When the card between her fingertips whispers to her
the potential I have in being a mother,
I want to leave.

It reminds me of when
My boyfriend tells me he can’t wait for the day  
That our magic comes together to create something worth stretching for.
The conversation leaves me with nightmares where I am alone and full with something that doesn’t quite feel like mine
And I leave him a week later.

All I’m doing is skipping the inevitable conversation
About the things I won’t give him.
Because between him and the woman in front of me,
I don’t know how to tell them that
motherhood is not something I expect within my deck.
Motherhood is a foreign concept that wakes me up each morning sicker than the last.
Purging myself of dreams of small fingers wrapped around my own.

I don’t know which combination of words
wraps the disappointment in pretty paper
And gives it over like a gift in the hands of my future love,
Allowing him to tear away at the layers until all that’s left
Is the box that I have stuffed this ugly truth into.

I have a list of names
Pressed into a book like flower petals that have been dry for far too long.
Like maybe some things are still beautiful after death,
Until they turn to dust.
Like maybe one day I will bring into the world
a child whose face fits these syllables,
Or maybe they’ll turn to dust.

See I like kids
And when people tell me that I will change my mind,
I tell them maybe.

Someone once told me that I was “denying nature”,
But it feels more like nature has denied me.
Feb 26 · 851
Scared to Rot
Daisy Feb 26
I used to feel so easy to love but maybe
I’m just eager to please
because no one thinks
to love the girl
who looks best

They step on my knuckles and it’s a compliment
to stand and watch me bleed.
Wrap my hair around
their wrists and smile,
fill my mouth

They tell me not to cry, or think, or speak, but I
have been crushed between teeth
and swallowed quickly
more times than not.
Scared to rot,
Jan 24 · 30
Dream Girl
Daisy Jan 24
If I were to die he would write a character about me;
a girl he thinks he knows.  

Dream Girl would listen to funky music
and send him the ones with bass.
She would always pick up the phone when he called
and never cry to his face.  

She’d tend to every problem,
prescribing remedies in the shape of her best advice.
She would send him pictures
after only a couple days of being nice.
She would have been his;
only desirable when he decides.

This version of me lives within his head,
and in his phone at night while he
is between the cold sheets of his bed.

Dream Girl wouldn’t be lonely to the bone,
she wouldn’t laugh at his ****** apologies
or be holding on by her fingertips to anything
that feels like a home.

She wouldn’t be aware of his patterns,
like how the women he dates are thin.
She wouldn’t see him desperate to stand out,
but dying to fit in.
And she sure as hell wouldn’t be ******* a man
9” taller and 4” longer than him.

If I were to die he would write a character
about a girl he plays with like a rag doll.
Looking down on her without ever wondering
what could have made her that small.
Never to realize that maybe,
he never really knew her at all.
Oct 2020 · 243
Modern Romance
Daisy Oct 2020
He asks me to open up
and so I do.

My legs,
my mouth,
my skin.

I offer up bits and pieces
of my flesh but
never myself.

And if he chews me to shreds,
I only hope that he likes the taste
of a girl half-dead in his bed.
Sep 2020 · 180
Daisy Sep 2020
I’ve always wanted wings to spread,
despite my fear of heights.
I’ve dreamt of color
and butterflies gliding through the sky.

But I was destined to spend my days
bolted to the ground.
Born of lead,
reality clings to me, and to it I am bound.

So I ignored when they warned me
about creatures of the night,
and never realized that I could attract moths
just from being so bright.

Reality is but fleeting moments
of lightness,
and now the places I’ve felt most free are tainted
by dead moths that deem me flightless.
Jul 2020 · 51
Secret Garden
Daisy Jul 2020
I grow flowers on my tongue for you.
Afraid to give you anything but my
most delicate truths.
Let them spill from my lips like the petals
we once knew.

Am I pretty enough yet?
Would you kiss me in public,
or am I just your loneliness personified?
Either way, I tell you it’s alright.

Let your sugar-water words wet the soil’s surface.
Artificially sweet, never let it seep to the roots
because I’m worthy of love,
just not from you.
Feb 2020 · 81
Daisy Feb 2020
I remember being shorter than the shovel.
Jacket sheltering me from the cold,
but the wind sharp enough to turn my face pink,
and despite the fact that I waited for these days,
I shivered.

Teeth chattering against my smile as my dad sat in the doorway.

On winter mornings when we’d claim the house as our own bit of chaos,
we’d marvel together at the petrified drips of water coming from the gutters.
and solid,  
I was sure the way the light danced through the icicle
was magic in the air.

But my dad and I do not make a peaceful pair.
I’d take the too tall shovel and swing,
the ice shatters around me,
raining glitter on my boots.

Ten winters later,
and our tradition has melted alongside my dad’s health.

Driving to the hospital feels like a death march.
The doors push through the parts of your life that make sense,
divide, and a rush of stale air convinces your eyes to close
like maybe you’re just afraid of what you might see.

I know these halls like the lines on my palm.
Each turn telling a different story.
The curved path to him resembles
the broken life-line that fate has cruelly carved into my hands.

Every visit the same as the last,
the years blur and I still have no idea how we are.
Time forever moving but never us.
Stuck in this purgatory between lives.  
Between living and surviving,
between home and hopefully a heaven.

But never with the icicles.
Never on the back porch burying our laughs into our gloved hands,
With the too-tall shovel
in the hands of a too-small girl.

Nothing quite feels clear,
or solid,
or sure.

All we can do is listen to the ice melt,
Listen to the birds cry their goodbyes to the glitter,
And hope that it means the sun is coming.
Dec 2019 · 50
Shrinking Girl
Daisy Dec 2019
It’s nights like this,
when the loudest noise is the ticking of the timeless clock on my bedroom wall,
that I wonder if anybody has ever loved me.

They have loved the way I float across waters while they crash with storms,
bringing their bodies safely to shore
as though the waves aren’t slowly seeping in,
rising to the top until I’m sunk in the sand.

Making castles on the ocean floor,
maybe they only ever cared for the habits I developed
trying to survive in a world that never wanted me.
Because it’s easy to benefit from someone so eager to please.

Longing for the day that someone sees me
rather than what I can do for them.
Rather than how small I can become for them.

Every night is like this,
because the loudest noise is the ticking of the timeless clock on my bedroom wall,
and I wonder if anybody has ever loved me
for any reason beyond knowing that
a shrinking girl fits in the palm of your hand
just so long as she is wrapped around your finger.
Feb 2019 · 95
Daisy Feb 2019
He sits,
silent for a month now,
a silence that fell upon my request.
It was my hands that placed the tape upon his lips.

His lips which I kissed with a fever
I haven’t felt since I was thirteen
and woke in the middle of the night only to find
that I hadn’t slept at all.

It was my hands that bound his.
His hands that wound me up
until all that was left was the desire to be his doll.
Something he could pretend to love,
without the responsibility that comes attached to it.

Attached like how he claimed he was to me.
Pretty words
like cobwebs in the corners of my room
that I can’t quite reach.
Can’t quite clean.

Clean like the white lies he adored so much.
The white lies that split my skin in two,
allowed him to crawl passed my barriers
that I had spent so long building.

A sad and foolish boy who mistook my body as his home.
As shelter while he felt weak.
Something to use.

Apologies in the form of an excuse,
and I can’t help but pray for the woman who allows him to speak.
Jan 2019 · 104
Missing Teeth
Daisy Jan 2019
Dreams are said to hold secrets of the subconscious.
Messages relayed from the brain to remind us of unresolved issues.

I have a collection of recurring dreams like others collect movies.
Mostly there to provide a resting place for the dust in the air,
but sometimes they are projected in the night.

Tonight it’s the one about teeth.
It usually starts with me standing in a public space,
most likely being looked at,
until my teeth fall from my mouth
one by one until there is nothing left.

A quick google search reassures me of three things
1. this is a common dream for others as well
2. this must mean I am anxious over things out of my control, and
3. that even in our worst fears we are not unique.  

I think about how people are a lot like teeth,
but I’m still learning how to lose people.

About all the ways I’ve laid myself out
as a welcome mat for whoever decides to clean their boots while passing

I am trying to remember that sometimes it’s natural for things to fall apart,
but no matter how much I think I understand what it means for someone to be gone,
I still find my tongue running over the gap.
The space that he should occupy,
that any other day he may have occupied.

His absence is slithering it’s way into my speech,
my voice stumbles around the syllables of his name
as if I must relearn what it means to live with a mouth without him in it.  

Missing teeth.
Like a black hole.
Like maybe you never belonged there in the first place.
Like being six years old,
and learning for the first time
that when something you thought you needed decides that you don’t anymore,
it hurts.

But when you’re six,
and you lose your first tooth,
you celebrate.

The magic of growing up makes the blood look like strawberry jelly,
instead of something to cry over.

But now I’m 19,
so the magic had worn off years ago
and the blood is just blood
and I still don’t know when to give up.

I choke on the word goodbye,
savoring the way it feels on the tip of my tongue,
like it could stay there forever,
instead of leaving my lips to meet him for the first time.

I’ve come to realize that this is less about him,
and more about the ways I tie myself to smoking houses
and refuse to leave even once the flames have began to lick at me.
More about the way I avoid commitment,
while sneaking off to hold hands with attachment as though the two aren’t related.

So I sit,
with gaps the shape of people in my mouth,
and I swallow the goodbye,
tucking it away for another time where I won’t be able to say it.
Nov 2018 · 162
Daisy Nov 2018
“The brain protects itself from trauma,”
she tells me
“It shuts off corridors full of memories in order to allow you to continue living in the house.”

The house,
which may or may not be a crime scene,
feels like a maze.
Like despite living here my whole life,
I’m not sure where certain hallways lead to,
or what that door opens up to display.
Like walking in the pitch black,
your hands dragging against the walls,
hoping you’ll end up somewhere familiar,
but there are more locks than entryways
and I just don’t have the keys.

“It’s to be expected, you know,”
her voice breaks me from my journey.
“Normal that parts of you are a mystery,
and I just want you to know,
there’s no guarantee you’ll ever get the answers you’re looking for,
but that doesn’t mean we can’t try”

I can hear the words hidden between her teeth,
a soft suggestion,
reminding me that these parts of my history are gone for a reason.
That maybe,
behind those doors is a monster that I don’t want to meet.

“The brain protects itself from trauma.”
Protection like this can sometimes feel like
you’re keeping secrets from yourself,
like somewhere deep down there is a child
who draws pictures and burns them before anybody
gets a glimpse at what her eyes have seen.

Sometimes I don’t care
about the past.
I wake up in the morning,
look at where I am now,
and can almost convince myself that it’s outside of me.
That I’m not affected by what I can’t remember.
I bask in the denial,
in the fact that I can’t be called a victim,
if I don’t recognize the violation.
I can’t suffer at the hands of a faceless,
and nameless atrocity,
only at the impact.

At the ways my hands shake when he moves too fast.
At how, as an adult,
I’m just now learning what it’s like to feel comfortable in my skin
and in others.

I realize I’m poking at a monster,
like every white person in a horror film,
I am investigating the basement when I should just move out.
but when your body is the building,
you have limited options of where to go.

I have ran in the other direction for so long,
and I’m so tired of the unknown.
If one day this door does open,
I don’t know what I will be confronted with.

But I do know that I am stronger than whatever it is that dwells here.
So when I can hear the door **** shake,
I no longer tremble with it.

I have learned to hold my ground,
to move towards the sunshine,
towards the garden,
to water the flowers there
and enjoy the growth.
Nov 2018 · 235
Lust is Not a Sin
Daisy Nov 2018
They say lust is one of the deadly sins
but when his lips travel from my own,
down my neck,
exploring uncharted territory
it feels more heavenly than anything offered in the pages of the bible.

I don’t necessarily believe in god,
but I do believe that his hands are my welcome to the golden gates.
And if god is real,
She would want me drown in his embrace.

She would tell us that this,
this thirst that we have for one another,
is natural and as close to divine as we can get.

The frantic desire to be closer,
despite being on top of him already,
is a testament to the power She gives us.

A verse hidden between the lines,
She whispers about the apple,
and how the hidden knowledge Eve was granted
was never really a secret in the first place.
but instead,
a test of curiosity,
She dares us to explore.

To take a bite,
and savor the sweetness that we sink our teeth into.
never more alive than in the moments we are gasping for air,
trying so hard to breathe one another in.
Unsure of how long this night will last,
or if we will get another chance at being this bold.

Holding hands,
and throats,
exchanging smiles
and grasping on to anything we can wrap our fingers around.


This is what She meant when She told us we would
long for the lewdness of our youth.

If god is real,
She would want nothing more than
our laughs and jokes to break up the intense reality that we are in.
She would send music down whenever he asks if I am still okay.
She would brighten the moon in glee,
because what could be more angelic than the halo
of hair spread out behind me.

What could be more holy than owning your body
unbothered by the wind whistling,
cheering us on in this moment.

They say that lust requires a penance,
but if god is real,
She is proud in this moment.

She has granted us the tools and the instinct,
lust was never really a sin.
We don’t need to ask for an absolution,
She grants us pleasure,
whispers that we don’t need to be forgiven.

There is something so humane about
the animalistic sounds clawing their way from his throat.
At the end of the night,
I find myself praying,
thanking Her for each mark on my skin.
Never asking for Her mercy,
this is heaven on earth
and it was She who created it.
Oct 2018 · 182
A Boy Like Autumn
Daisy Oct 2018
After sending yet another 10 second video of my feet crunching through trails of leaves,
I apologize for being annoying.
This is the second time in the last week I’ve shot this same take,
A modern day “wish you were here” postcard on repeat.

“What?” he says  “Not at all, you’re so cute”

I feel my resolve break to a million pieces beneath my foot
as if the tree branch above me shed it too.

The first person who reminds you what it’s like to be excited for the morning
Is like the crisp air of fall.
Easy to breathe,
just sharp enough to remind you it’s new.
And maybe fleeting.

But then again maybe he’ll linger.
Everything else about him
Is opposite of the last man who made my heart race.
Which is how I know I’m not being stupid.  

He pauses between flirts,
Moves his hand slowly when he’s near me,
Casually asks for reassurance,
That it’s okay that he touches me,
That I’m okay with him liking me.

I’ve never been treated with tenderness like this,
I got used to being crushed between teeth,
But he holds my name soft on his tongue
As if savoring the taste.  

When the man from the past
Finds my number once again,
I start to shake.
I can’t tell if I’m angry or afraid,
And then I remember the leaves,
And the chill of the breeze,
And my cold fingers find their way to the block button.

“I’m proud of you for standing up for yourself.” he says.
Daisy Sep 2018
The Greeks say that when the King of the Dead
Laid his eyes on Persephone for the first time,
He was struck by her innocence,
Her simple beauty as she tended to flowers.

He lured her in with an enchanted daffodil,
And when she drifted towards the small petals,
The earth opened its ugly mouth,
Swallowing the child upon Hades orders.  

She may have been the first,
But there’s no such thing as a last.

Girls have grown up seeing the look in men's eyes,
When they realize how
How his heart softens when he sees her.
As though her innocence
Could cure him of his sickness.

As if breathing her bubble gum air
Will somehow make his life pop.
The ends of her bows tying knots
Helping him keep his **** together,

She becomes a savior
Before old enough to become a woman

He wears her like a bruise,
Privately poking as to see the shift in hues,
But in public who would have known.
They also say that her mother, Demeter, went mad
When she couldn’t find her daughter.
And even more so when she did find where she was.  

The Goddess of Agriculture killing the crops she planted,
Starving the people she created,
Raising hell up in the heavens.
Her anger was said to scare Zeus himself.

So when you,
As a man in your friends passenger seat,
Decide to open the earth,
And allow it to swallow somebody’s child whole,
How mad do you think her mother would be?
**** it, how mad would YOUR mother be?

I wonder if you have a sister,
And if you heard the way strangers speak to her on the street,
Would you still be laughing?
I wonder if you can smile more.
I wonder where you’re headed looking like that.
I wonder who mislead you.
Who taught you that this is what means to be man.
Who forced the human out of you.
Mother Nature was willing to destroy the world due to one monster who felt entitled.
What makes you think she’ll spare you?

I wish we could go back to that field,
Back to when Persephone was chasing her friends,
Before the flowers wilted from her disappearance.
Before the six pomegranate seeds that bound her to the underworld every six months.

I at least wish we could tell her that
One day, she’ll grow up.
She’ll move as far away from the past as she can get.
She will bloom,
And smile again.
Her roots stronger from the wind.
And Spring will fill the air as she passes by.
And he,
Will spend all of eternity burning in the fire she sparked.
Sep 2018 · 222
An Ode to My First Home
Daisy Sep 2018
You were a foreign concept,
Before I crossed your threshold my passport was stamped with
The loneliness that only accompanies temporary rooms.

I was a small,
And distrusting girl who had never felt solid ground beneath her.
The Earth’s platelets separating me further from normality
At the beginning of each month.

Black trash bags of my belongings littered the grass of every previous rest stop,  
And I thought you would be just like the others.
It was only a matter of time.

You learn not to get comfortable,
Not to unpack the baggage that you grew up developing,
And who knew somebody so young could have so much ******* baggage.

We walked the streets with it dangling from our shoulders,
I was little, and felt like Santa.
Only I didn’t much like that man, he always seemed to leave us out.
Mommy taught us that most men are like that.
They promise all sorts of things,
And then wonder why you’re upset when your hands are empty.

What mommy didn’t teach us,
Is that it wasn’t anybody’s fault but hers.
She didn’t explain that most mothers don’t disappear for days.
Or that they don’t lock themselves in rooms with torches
And men who can’t look me in the face.

She didn’t prepare me for the days that I would have you.

You saw more of my growth than she ever did,
Within your walls I first able to be a kid.

At ten I painted almost every piece of furniture in my room
without my dad knowing,
And it didn’t feel like enough until I scribbled my name into the wall beside my bed.

Marking my territory like
“Do you see me?”
“Is this real?”
“If I chain pieces of myself to every corner, they can’t make me leave, right?”

When I was twelve,
I invited my best friend over for the first time.
I had never had a place to hold sleepovers,
unless the vacancy in the shelter was gone,
And a stranger shared our room with us.

But you made me feel ordinary,
Like I had a place in the world,
And wow is that a big feeling for a little girl.

And then came fourteen,
The world seemed to crash around me,
And like every fourteen year old girl
I thought I knew love.

But when that older boy turned out to be meaner than the streets,
You let me cry,
Barricaded behind your doors,
I felt safe.

I screamed so loud I could feel you shake,
The window panes glistening with rain,
I think you cried with me.

And it was time to leave.
Our little family worked so hard for the opportunity to advance,
“Don’t worry kids, we’re going to a forever home, one that we can own”

I said **** that,
Sat on the floor until the last box left.
I never allowed myself to be planted somewhere,
But you stole the roots from my feet and tied them to your foundation.

Your walls had been drenched in my sorrows,
And in my joys.
I never would have guessed I’d meet you,
And I never realized how much I really needed you.

I’m eighteen now,
In college,
And still think about you some days.

I never got to thank you for your support that became my back bone.
It’s crazy how well you can pay attention in school when you actually have a home.

I’m here now,
And you’re there,
But you have to know
that I carry you with me everywhere.

— The End —