that you saw every part of me
fall apart like the house we live in.
i watched you freeze over
like a lake in winter,
when i asked
why my stuff was left packed
by the door.
sometimes i feel like a kid
running towards the cars,
without looking twice,
because you forgot to tell me i need
to look both ways.
i wish i knew then i shouldn't have to beg
to be treated like i'm wanted.
i need not reach for a hand
that slaps mine away,
or pulls apart like the sea from a shore
which begs to kissed.
i think you forgot love isn't all beautiful,
it's waking up to your stinking breath in the morning
and kissing you,
it's being in an multiple choice exam
but the answer i always circle is you.
it's being in the ring and
choosing not to throw the punches
despite the raw screaming,
and the crowd cheering.
i still catch a breath,
when i think how ****** up it was that
you drove me to see an old friend
you hadn't seen in years
and joked about our future like there was one,
when you were planning
on ending it the same weekend.
i still remember your stares,
the pebbles on the beach,
the kids ride you made me sit on with you
because you thought it would be scary
but the only scary thing was
you telling me you loved me,
when you hated me.
nowadays i get so angry when i hear
other people debate what love is,
when i've known and i've lost.
but i'm so ******* glad you never read
any of my poetry.
because that will be just another thing
you don't understand,
alongside what love is.
Men they call them,
I have a different name.
I find myself scoffing at the dark,
At hands that rough themselves
At prowling fingers pulling leaves
As they go.
Perhaps they have yet to learn,
That is it better to nurture
Than to maim.
Watering my roots will make me
Grow taller and prouder,
To take pieces, branches,
Stunts my growth,
The leaves will only decay soon anyway.
I’m learning quickly,
To be alone is better than in bad company.
I am longing for those days
I stop chasing after bad men.
It’s like running towards the knife
Instead of away from it.
I have a habit of sacrificing myself
To these men,
Like I am the devils conquest.
I’ve become a mad woman
Trying to find someone who cares enough
To learn all my crevasses.
I keep telling myself
That I will forget them,
One day my eyes won’t stare
Watering into the dark,
My fists as tight as my stomach.
I will fall asleep peacefully in arms
That water me with potential.
I want physical comfort to be
my minds like a child screaming,
and i'm full of headaches,
all these thoughts that i can't shake lose,
like brambles on my brain.
i wanted you to fix me,
instead you just wanted to **** me.
that was my mistake, again.
i tend to make them.
i have a thing for narcissists.
you can't be straight up and i'm too forward.
vulnerable is the new ****.
not stupid, vulnerable.
you asked about my brother and i stuttered,
i didn't know what to say.
maybe that was the first time i made you
because you realized i was a person.
the picture stared down at us from
isn't it odd how the dead can still watch us,
make us feel guilty.
you left with mumbled apologies,
the door slammed as you went,
it left a quiet emptiness within.
maybe that was easier,
there's already enough ghosts in this house
without you becoming one too.
she's got that black dress on again,
the thigh-highs tight on slender white legs.
the men they stare like their eyes caught fire,
she's a walking inferno, smoke billowing
behind her heels.
have you ever had a stranger ******* so good
you told them you loved them?
she's tangled like a rainbow fish in his net,
the tide of the sheets pulling her in.
she's like a rare animal going extinct,
but oh her face is pretty,
like those flowers on your mothers windowsill.
and she tastes even prettier than she looks.
bury your face in her neck,
let her hair billow round in ringlets,
bury your face in her chest.
but if she says no,
that does not mean convince her,
her will is as strong as her thighs wrapped
tightly round his neck.
but it feels so good,
it feels so ******* good,
it makes her want to scream the walls down.
writing about the taboo is a bit more interesting
i hate you, and i wish you were dead,
because if you were dead,
i could remember you kindly,
my memory would be of
how you cared for me,
not how you hurt me.
i could reflect on us fondly,
without every memory tainted
by how you left me all bone,
that vultures could not find
anything left to pick of me.
there would be no need
to think about what you were up to
every single day.
i would think of you rotting,
and how i wished you could stay.
i wouldn't pace aimlessly,
my head cold like the winter sky,
knowing you are out there living,
not giving a **** about me.
i do not wish to have unmet you,
but i do wish you dead.
instead i'm grieving someone
who's still alive.
i'm a bad person because
i cannot love you as you deserve to be loved
i used to write about anonymous men
who thunder through this world,
leaving cracks in the sky
to the women that love them.
but here i am now,
i am just as heinous as the clouds that
block the sun when the earth needs it most.
i have lost my ability to tiptoe
over my anger.
when i'm sad i don't know myself
or you anymore.
my depression makes me see
those who love me as the enemy,
i'm fighting the people who try
to help me,
sometimes i wish they'd see me
as a lost cause.
they're all just trying to
get me out of the smoke so
i can see properly,
but it's too deep into my lungs now,
they're charred by the ash.
you said you wished we could,
i quote: "just be happy"
and i'm apologizing again
because it's always my fault.
i wonder if abusive people know
they are abusive?
i am bad for knowing that i spew
toxicity on everything we grow.
i am bad for not stopping myself,
because my emotions control me as though
i'm merely chemical mass in my head,
not a soul, or a person who
wants to be better.
i'm so sorry, i can't be the good person,
i shouldn't make excuses,
because somewhere under all the illness
i am there.
the more i cry apologies,
the more meaningless they become,
until i send you away by
wanting you closer.
a pretty face won't make him stay,
only words can,
but you write them all down on paper
instead of telling him anyway.
if you spoke up sooner,
if you didn't let your words strangle
themselves in your vocal chords,
maybe love would be a roar,
maybe it would be louder than the sound
of your neighbors fist hitting his wife.
maybe your love wouldn't be so silent,
as his footsteps late at night,
when he comes back stinking of anothers perfume.
you'd turn your body to face the wall,
you'd be a body of bricks,
you'd be the wall.
maybe if both your bodies entwined,
you could form fossils in bed.
and later, archaeologists could marvel
at the beauty of human heartache,
how the heart turns to dust,
and the love decays with us.