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  Dec 2017 zh
AJ
At the age of 16, I promised myself I’d never get addicted.
I swore to myself that not one thing could drown me in the ocean that is addiction, but at age 18, I shattered the promise into pieces.

Growing up, the smell of cigarette smoke escaping my mom’s sweaters always made me sick to my stomach,
but as soon as sadness found me at the age of 16, it whispered in my ear to find the addiction in nicotine.
I found myself sneaking into the garage to steal cigarettes out of half full packs,
blowing smoke out of my window at the Devil’s hour.
And at age 18 I replaced the stolen packs of cigarettes with bought packs of Marlboro Blues.
The packs sit at the bottom of my purse, the smell masked by over usage of perfume,
the addiction hidden by me telling everyone who loves me “I don’t like it anyway.”

Growing up with an alcoholic father, full of terrifying nights wondering whether or not I’d see him come home after the bar,
I swore to myself I’d never drink any sort of alcohol,
but that was soon broken when I found the bottle of wine no one wanted to drink,
and the forgotten beer cans nobody from my family drank at a birthday party.
I drowned it all, and for that second I understood why my father could want this addiction so much.
The burn was a numbing experience, and I found more relief in shots of mixed liquor and blackouts than any therapy session.

There’s no “growing up” story with the blade, with the cutting, with the self harm.
Maybe I was always fascinated with blades. Maybe I was drawn to it. Maybe I liked the idea of it,
but becoming addicted to dragging a blade across my skin was never something I could imagine.
When the knife first drew blood,
a part of me thought the waterfall of crimson was beautiful,
trailing down my arm in a river of red,
dropping into a puddle like raindrops on a stormy day.
The blade cut through skin as easy as pen on paper,
and I promised myself I would never become addicted,
but the faded white lines on my arms tell a different story.

I remember meeting you,
I remember telling myself,
“****, you’re *******,”
because even if I did promise myself never to become addicted to anything,
I easily became addicted to you.
But you,
you weren’t toxic like every other thing in my life.
You were the sunshine through storm clouds,
hazel eyes sparkling when you talked about something you love.
But it wasn’t how you talked about the items in your life that made me become addicted,
it’s how you light up when talking about me.
It’s how your eyes look before I kiss you,
full of not only lust but so much love,
a love that is so foreign to me I can’t find myself to ever want to stop kissing you.
It’s how you kiss my hand, or my forehead,
or sing in the car when I’m not okay.
It’s how at home I feel in your arms,
and maybe that’s cliche,
but if this is addiction,
then I never want to be in rehab.
(original:http://hellopoetry.com/poem/977081/i-swore-id-never-get-addicted/)
It's been almost two years since I wrote the first one, and I thought it needed a rewrite about how things can change in a couple years. Maybe it didn't change a lot, but I'm happy with how it is.
zh Dec 2017
Get away from me
I can feel every bond in my body
Fall apart
so get away from me
get as ******* far as possible
because apparently 2916 miles isn't enough
maybe a distance like that doesn't exist -
the one where I don't want you to get away
I can still feel your presence
as I relive all of our memories
day and night
even the ones where we don't speak
something that was never compulsory to us
I feel you are attracted to me
in a way that I could never want
in a way that I could never want
in a way that only gives me heartbreak and anything that could break me
feeling nothing at all, not crying for months
Did four years of that not give you your ******* satisfaction?
You would never dream of this, but stop asking why we don't talk and just get away from me
because there's no way I can get away from you.
zh Nov 2017
I feel nothing
maybe I feel a cloud that only rains in my presence but
I really feel nothing

Sometimes I see myself
in the googles of someone else who is far
very far,
watching me on a screen
and whenever I start to feel
I can feel someone else overriding
my control of myself
I am pushed to the very backseat
despite calling shotgun.

I feel nothing
except for Zeus' anger
at the ***** of my feet
in the form of volcanic lava
bubbling and toiling
as it overrides the meniscus boundary
but now
I am here
me
I am here
in my car in the driver's seat
I don't have to call shotgun
because my unconscious
yes, mine
my unconscious is all mine
and now,
I have never felt more alive.

But the lava always cools and resides,
despite the internal temperature,
solidifying only to be melted again
and I am where I belong
I am right in the backseat.
zh Nov 2017
***
you’ll come close to me first
just so you can hear me, of course
you are quiet
and you hear me
really hear me
and open up those lips, that i can’t stop looking at
they’re plump
and very pink
and i can’t even look at you

we’ll part even though you’ve practically filled me completely
my mind is heavy with you
but i have to watch you from afar
this is god’s practical *** joke
i watch you turn
stretch
lean
bend
smirk
and smile at something you shouldn’t have
and it seems as though
i can’t stop rocking myself in my chair

the torture is over
it’s time to go
but it seems you’ve only bent me over your knee now
we’re close again
and you smell like something i want to smell more of
do not go;
but i look at you
and it seems like you don’t want to

make sure we’re alone
and come close again
i feel like as you come closer
i drift farther
we are just chasing each other
but ground me
i don’t want anyone else to

bring your hand, rough and veiny
against my cheek
and slide it like lotion on skin
hold
it
you will edge close
now we’re in a questionable position
so i will make the move
those lips are finally on me
and they are gaining momentum
his hands are  on other cheeks now


SLAM
my back against the wall
so sudden that i gasp
but you kiss me anyways
and my legs are raised around your waist
i hate your clothes and you hate mine
do not stop

you are ****
and wise
fill me with your wisdom
right in the  place of my weakness
focus on my weak points
so we can get a better grade
yes, there you go
throb and pulse and
pound
so hard that every time you do
i become aware of your presence all over again
so hard
you’re so hard
don’t stop until i am powerless
do not stop
let me  be weak
don’t stop

hold my neck, another weak point
and shove your fingers in my mouth -
sometimes its best to let the teacher do the talking
let me smell your hardworking sweat
and your cologne that won’t leave me till morning
I will scratch your back
relieve your itches
bone deep
red marks of scandal on your back
my hands amongst your dark hair
too soft to keep a grip of
don't you dare ******* stop
  Oct 2017 zh
beth fwoah dream boleyn
i.

unwrap me tenderly,
pour your love
like water from a jug,
please me and
harness me,
bring me to life,
beneath your touch.

ii.

tonight the puddles
whisper to a wandering moon,
reflections like onyx in
dreamy pools, the
water’s soft breeze,
a stream of stars,
your love also, the song of a star.

iii.

the last heartbeat
of summer in the
honey light,

after the rain
everything feels
refreshed,
ink pressed to
the water.

iv.

nightingale-free
the breeze
whispers to the
trees,
dark-eyed, its
leaves a rose
on my pillow,
beats an ashy drum.

v.

you pull me to you,
i’m brought to life
by the sound of your voice,
caressing me with
your lips, my back
arched back, my ribs
a dream of you,
monet-reflected
in the night and in your
eyes.
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