Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Jul 2014 qynce b
It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy ****, I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.
 May 2014 qynce b
the basement is full of smoke.
i'm hiding from my mother,
clutching a half-full pack a girl gave me before i left.
you are here like vapor.
like displaced sound, a crash from behind while i watch fireworks,
unnoticed sensation,
a spider on the neck while i brush my are always here,
the smell of nail polish after the red has dried.i can hardly remember how you
really were, how i really felt - you're a strange reaction,
waking up crying and feeling were not true to me;
true to yourself but never me {or maybe i never noticed,
angry that you changed.}
your memory lives in the nape of my neck,
pained and sore,
stiff after sleeping with my head bent in are perfume,
thirty bottles, thirty people you wanted to be,
thirty scents mixing and souring in my own blood before i met you,
dry rust on paper, a spell i stopped believing in
before i could finish.
the stars undid themselves when i struck a match.
the moon embraced me when i prayed, and now
i burn my fingers on lighters
and try not to cry over
cold moons.
rituals were comfort.incense smoke,
quartz in the mouth.maybe i never truly believed but
meaning is appealing, solid,
warm weight to fill uncertainty's pit.maybe you were the filled me,
made me feel meaningful, needed me.
sobbed as you tried to eat me alive, i cant blame you.
we all need something -
you need to be need a thousand mothers
taking every blow for you.
i need to be idolized, worshiped, constantly assured that i am wanted
but not needed.
we're both selfish, we're both jealous.
monsters in human skins,
using each other and killing ourselves.
green-eyed and growling.
 May 2014 qynce b
maybe i'm a lightning bolt, electricity in my bones maybe
maybe i'm the sun
light dripping from my mouth like blood
like a bullet in the barrel of your gun
maybe i'm a firecracker
because i keep on burning
no amount of water can put me out
i am smoke
and ruin and you are the aftermath
{"i'm sorry about that night
i'm sorry that your mother died when you were nine"}

i'm sorry that i never gave you a chance to love me because i am too broken
you couldn't piece me back together if you tried
make me your slaughterhouse
i've been told that i'm good at exhaling war crimes
nail my hands to a chalkboard and tell me to draw
put a bullet between my teeth and tell me to shoot
i will try to
believe me, i've done it before
you keep saying that this is real
for some reason i don't believe you
it might be because of the way you cut my lungs out
with your bare hands
i'm still not sure if i ever really trusted you
the last time you called me beautiful was the same night that
water began to fill my lungs
you whispered it to me with your hands around my neck
(i still have the bruises)
like i was your painting and you were just here to admire your work
when you kiss me it tastes like hate
like you rubbed your tongue with spiderwebs
i've never felt so hopeless
you were my self destruct button
i wonder if you know how many times i tried to set you off
(i wonder if you know how often i see you in the gap
between my teeth and my tongue;
you're still making me fumble for words after you're gone)
when i told you i could never love you you answered by saying that i wasn't real
i believed you
i still do.
 May 2014 qynce b
[theres something wrong with her]* , i told him,
[she's beautiful.] *
/cause or symptom?/ he asked, and i shrugged.she was wearing green nail polish
and cheap sandals, drinking bottled water,
i was on the corner like a vagrant,
sundress and sunglasses,
reading far too much into
every movement.
she looked like she tipped taxi drivers far too much,
like she could break every bone
and laugh about it the next day,
and i wanted to **** her.
like that would give me part of her, like an exchange
and not just an act.
{she was looking at her phone and she laughed at god knows what,
a text or a picture or anything but i
wanted to cook for her,
i wanted to sleep with her and still be friends
the next day}
he nudged me and i shrugged,
traced patterns on the sidewalk till she left.
/there's something wrong with you/ he told me. i shrugged.
short poem short memory
 May 2014 qynce b
1.i took a breath, punched the door. he asked if it helped at all,
rubbed his temples when i did it again,
told me to call him when i felt like talking,
we havent spoken since. he isnt important to this story.
what matters is how unsafe i feel just saying your name, how unreal
you make me feel. imaginary and implausible. wish fulfillment so blatant
im amazed i ever thought i was something more
than a myth.  

2. i can't give you what you want/couldn't give you what you want. something like a romance film,
candles on the shore,
not blown out by ocean winds.
something where i cry your name or
kiss you when you shout
instead of screaming back,
perfect plaster queen crumbling
for no one but you.
where i sing and you sigh.
where at least one of us cares.

3. im still not sure who's to blame
my heart is swollen my hands are bloated there is motor oil
pooling in the hollow of my palms, did you do this to me?
did i unravel you? im still not sure what happened. i stopped asking for help a long time ago

4.  i do not feel safe.
you are behind me always.
i am sweating bullets and you are loading your gun.
you are a breakdown waiting to happen.
you are my genes planning treason.

5. you're a're a're a fake.
buying me coffee and spitting down my throat like
it evens out in the're so say youd never hurt me as if
i couldnt see my ******* intestines in your fist. you're a fake.
you're pyrite, fool's gold,
costume jewelry cutting off circulation to my hand.

6. i know everything sounds the same.
i know i give the same speech every time.
i know repetition is getting old and
six breakdowns in the same month is
overdoing it. i was trained from birth to **** up my life
and im exceeding expectations.

7. [image: memorial day card,
'we had nothing worth remembering' inside,
hallmark logo on the back]

8. i didnt really want to be real anyway
distraction.jpg; inadequacy.png
 May 2014 qynce b
i am sexually attracted to pencils.
get this to trend
Next page