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14.3k · Jul 2013
boobs (haiku)
Sarina Jul 2013
round as the top of
tea cups, white as creamer in
coffee – ***** are sweet.
10.3k · Jul 2013
boobs part 3 (haiku)
Sarina Jul 2013
keeper of my heart,
burglar of every man’s, *****
can fall in love too.
9.8k · Jun 2013
adjectives
Sarina Jun 2013
My poems idealize your tongue on my tongue
your breath in mine,
these verses will romanticize how we skipped from street to street
our arms swinging between your left hip and my right
like I did not think about how my parents
never doubled their strength to pull me up above ground as
we walked through parking lots. I
needed to fly and no adult could let me but you.
The sudden hurt, I have not yet dramatized that morning
you returned my voicemail unsuspecting
unknowing my intention to whisper I hate you I hate you I hate you.
Every bone in my body had broken because we could not
levitate any longer: you were not even strong
enough to keep yourself grounded. I make you sound beautiful
I make you sound ugly, but neither is real, just as
how there are no words for the New Year ball dropping.
8.8k · May 2013
puberty
Sarina May 2013
At nine, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said no
At ten, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said no
At eleven, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said no

At twelve, I asked my mother if I could shave my legs
and she said maybe later.

At thirteen, I had not shaved my legs
and my mother asked why, everyone wondered why –
that is like asking where I got my molars from
or why my tastebuds sizzle when I drink orange juice.  

Suddenly suddenly I was grown
but I had to hide every ****** tissue in the garbage.
8.8k · Jul 2013
boobs part four (haiku)
Sarina Jul 2013
I cannot stand my
mind, but I sure love playing
with my ***** sometimes.
8.6k · Jul 2013
boobs part five (haiku)
Sarina Jul 2013
men like ***** and so
do infants. then again, I
think everyone does.
7.4k · May 2013
cat toy
Sarina May 2013
A little sight, him sauntering over to my side of the bed
pantless and looking eager as a child to see me:
he had her ******* in mind. I know now,
I only feel sympathetic about it, I know it pained him
when he touched mine.
He said her name so few times I just thought of her as the
animal homophone, and if I were anyone else,
I would not have worried when he said
she thought of him on occasion, because morning came
as morning still and he still had a big heart for a liar.
The thing is that our rapport was honesty –
if I laid on him too heavy, he would request I scoot over
if he did not want to sing me a song
in that baritone fluid, I would seek another shoreline.
Submissive, yet, I would ask him what I wanted without
asking if he could simply love being loved,
I could not understand. Only a scruffy teddy bear could.
But we do not talk about it, maybe I mention
a bunny an ex gave me, one I cut the ears off of when
the apocalypse came, but he has not a syllable.
Nobody wants their lovers to exist
with other loves, and sometimes we do not want ourselves
to exist with other loves even more so.
I only feel sympathetic about it, because I first felt I had
a sibling when we connected, became all carnal,
sweet nature handed me a body.
I only just understood that I was not given the right one.
7.4k · Sep 2013
tomato vines
Sarina Sep 2013
i. you took the clouds
and dyed them, used droplets of food coloring
so the sky would almost always
look like it was in mid-sunset, aching for the moon.


ii. tomato vines, tomato vines
tangled on you
and you are not even mine.


iii. songs that stopped being beautiful after you left me


iv. they named cottage cheese after the
first place we watched the food
network and
pretended to make a casserole for our family of six.
5.9k · Jun 2014
anal
Sarina Jun 2014
He asked
how I felt after losing my virginity
and

I just needed to know
if god will bury us in the sky
after the ground
is full
5.8k · Feb 2013
vagina (a love story)
Sarina Feb 2013
I tripped on a forest of roots & lost my clothes.
When this happened, I felt less a lady
in shame of uncovering from pink, frilly things

the shelter like feathers on a peacock or
ribbons track-marking a braid –

I was enclosed in such a house that I must have
become it myself. ****, I saw tiger-stripes
eating their way from my hips to bottom
and made a big taproot, a radix to the physical

me, as rosy as a flower in the dead of spring
even billowing as petals will for wedding vows –
the single, womanly cavity I concealed

how together we became such a dollhouse
for nature and its ***** hair:
I, taught to play with my own frilly, pink thing.
5.6k · Jun 2013
flirting poetically
Sarina Jun 2013
Moths are born from spider webs,
creatures who make love with seven legs bent over their heads
and that is how I feel for you.

Almost invisible upon the back of plush blacks
merely caught up in a game of Twister, twisted, tied,
birthing beautiful flies -
I want to feel my saliva crawling out from your ****** hair.
5.3k · Feb 2013
as a million orchids
Sarina Feb 2013
Twenty seven months of sunlight showers,
and I am still white –
can he pull me into vinegar?
Make my skin peel into another shade?

No one will recognize.
Our relationship is an oasis, not on a map
but I can spread like an ancient one –

used to being fingered and opened,
garden is a home of myriad wedding vows
when the wind gusts, he feels a promise
touching concealed cartilage

of his ear. No one has spoken so low and
has been heard by anyone even if
the feeling hangs like ferns from a rooftop.

And our body, our single form
hums in a similar silhouette with him above.
No one can amputate his seed from me:
I keep growing into last December
4.9k · May 2013
the little mermaid
Sarina May 2013
There was nothing I was ever so ashamed of
that I dumped it in a river to drown,
but one time my best friend accidentally tossed my pink fishing pole
into the bayou when a spider dangled from the line.

We were eight, everything was wishy-washy
because she called herself a mulatto like it were an insult
and my older friends kept mentioning that my mom walked herself

to a liquor store very late at night
twelve-packs bruising her German-colored shoulder.
I did not tell them my father had hidden away her car keys.

Girls teased me and I still wanted to kiss their cheeks at goodbyes,
The Little Mermaid featured at our sleepovers
saying, “kiss the girl,” so I did
but we stopped talking when I bought my training bra,
it proved what was in my skirt, my lips could not touch them again.

You cannot kiss a girl if you are a girl,
even if Disney movies say it is okay because Mickie Mouse
has no ***** to be ashamed of though a wife of the opposite ***.

I learned important things until I turned ten
and Hurricane Katrina unraveled the bayou into my house
and I existed in four different classrooms in my fourth grade year
where nobody had enough time
to learn my name, much less the way it is spelled.

Now, in therapy, the certified insists
that I am a girl who kisses other girls because my mother
only put her lips on a bottle.

But maybe I wear striped dresses just because mold grew that
shape in my home on Camellia Street,
mud decorated the fallen refrigerator so it looked like
a cow some punk tipped over.
I just wish the sidewalk I use to rollerblade on hadn’t flooded.
4.8k · Jul 2013
boobs part six (haiku)
Sarina Jul 2013
what I want is a
bowl of yogurt on my skin
that moves when I walk.
4.7k · Jul 2013
dual citizenship
Sarina Jul 2013
There is a city that only I inhabit, and there is one in you, too
but that must mean houses are there
or a hotel one may stay during a visit. I guess it depends
on who you ask, if they believe in an everlasting love big enough
to fill the whole metropolis inside a person.
I did not know until I met you that cavities within me
could welcome a second resident and he would stay staring at
these organs without
thinking they look unnatural, like paintings x-rays EKG screens.
I am sorry for explaining this to everyone but I am just
so happy that my heartbeat  sounds like
a ticking clock to you – we hold bodies that tell their own time.
4.4k · Jul 2013
boobs part two (haiku)
Sarina Jul 2013
I cannot sleep – too
busy thinking about these
pillows on my chest.
4.4k · Mar 2013
girly
Sarina Mar 2013
It looks like a redcoat –
this bottle of pink fizz, and its cork
dug carefully from the peak.

I would drink to you some champagne
but you would tell me to have whiskey.
4.3k · Jul 2013
boobs part seven (haiku)
Sarina Jul 2013
I am beginning
to believe that breast milk is
made of shooting stars.
Okay last one. It is 3am, and I am bored as heck.
4.2k · Nov 2012
tulip-days
Sarina Nov 2012
I let go too soon, of these three fingers
pinning a white dress to my knees,
such a strut they possess, and psychic
for the waggle I do on my tulip-days:

mama said that the lace came from an
elves’ head, I could not wear it.
I put it in a dresser drawer, as I lost
my appetite for marriage and friends.

She said that father wanted to see it,
I should parade my red, pulsing veins.
A torpedo, it became, cowering until
liftoff  and glory hallelujah first kisses.

Was it not funny when I, poor chap,
kept garbage in my teeth and laughed
when you slithered your tongue inside,
like Friday penetrating the weekend?

You are a Leo; I am far from such, but
I understand why you may be insulted,
as mama garbs turquoise as the sky
and all our daffodils burn like rubber.

Each says it is because they love me,
railing cat-scratches with a stitch –
but I do not want that, see earthquakes
that hammer on  our tulip-days, dear.
3.7k · May 2013
the capricorn
Sarina May 2013
Against the lavender of a Capricorn:
less chubby at age fourteen than at eighteen,
produced at the wrong time.

Her stars are their least private in December,
moths pick up ovaries and eggs
from below her dress
left behind from relationship number one.

A lesbian curse, no offspring
for her girlfriend was a Capricorn spirit too.

A nymph who took ten seconds to leave
though eight years to disappear:
nurses say, “it just hurts for a moment,”
but needles ruin your whole ******* week.

But out of two Capricorn women,
one is sure to get pregnant.

The first’s not heard of powdered milk,
nor would she have any,
calcium-deficient so others break her bones.

She has a cabinet of amber orbs
held with sickly insects, a million years old
and brown hair in like tiny ***** of yarn.
Some parts of a person can belong to another.

This was not their cornflower-eyes
but an ability to bear child from straight ***
female parts tangled like herbs and stars.
3.7k · Mar 2013
may babe
Sarina Mar 2013
I still taste like April in the month of May
and he crossed December as a state-line
long before I knew that time could be a place
but it is beautiful being ahead of the game:
catch the curls of autumn, snowdrop waves
make me prefer honeysuckle eyes anyway
they make me want to become his May babe.
3.6k · Aug 2013
cum
Sarina Aug 2013
***
It made scallops on my shirt, dried like salt
in seashells —
the final appearance of our love.
I
could have mourned it
as if it were more than the possibility of life
disguised by a million tadpoles. A whole

day, it took him to get home
it may be even more
miles than my body fluids travel in a week.
His, still on my shirt. Hits my knees

(always the knees, have built oceans on them)

He thinks he left, but it was I
who cleaned sand castles from all my crevices

he thinks he left, he
the snail
I have
caught up in years of needing to be ******.

He thought he left, but white beaches
are still in my dresser —
it is what remains.
I am so tempted to say, "your *** outlived you"
but it would not be the
first time his **** did the work for him.
3.4k · Oct 2012
forest’s architecture
Sarina Oct 2012
your forest’s architecture
verdant in spots, and then a stump
did the dead leaves ever have a heart beat
what made the ballad stop, was it sun?

little larva squirming towards a moon
and their mama maggots weep –
to lose a child, to lose a child

when death-creatures want to be
an astronaut, the green canopies are bars
prosper in the centipede teeth munch
fertilizer for a final seed

without vertebrae they climb over stars
& leave your forest’s architecture
crumbling for buzzards.
3.4k · Feb 2015
the anatomy of flowers
Sarina Feb 2015
little ***** being,
the petals that swathe you are pinker than mine
and your nectar is sweeter too. you
deserve to have a name
that matches
your melanin – pure as infant’s skin, not
human
but better than.
3.3k · Apr 2013
leo, capricorn
Sarina Apr 2013
It is occult, maybe, that we are twins
          but not of Gemini

how you know
which streets to turn left at
while I have the names and no context

how you still smell like cinnamon
although I never saw you
rub powder against your skin.

We are in the same city now
we have the same radio stations.

I see you the way I see the outline of
a boot when I can’t touch slumber
          not ethereal
    but almost reduced to such a shape

a barbershop’s swirling bulb
stretched and sunnier when no one has
entered in some time.  

           Everything is magic
in desperation, everything is similar.
3.2k · Jul 2013
blindness
Sarina Jul 2013
Think of how much world is wasted on
bad eyes - by blindness, or ones that merely do not want to see.
The next thing you know you cannot miss a sunrise
and french kiss both moon and stars
goodnight, your head will hug its fallen hair on the pillowcase,
strands telling stories of when you were not conscious. I
realize you will visit jewelry stores and
watch how gemstones are faceted. You will imagine the galaxy
within an amethyst, publish novels on their bouquets
of cigarettes, worry about how pretty things can **** themselves too.
Everything is a story: you ask to see my cellulite,
you tell me how it got there, how my skin stretched to make
room for every place we shall go
including statelines that do something similar. We stretch apart
and still we are okay. We think about how the same
dawn reaches us, I can almost see your pupils dilate when the sky
dances - I watch but you hope to learn the ballet.
Someone is taking a photograph right now that they can look
at later, ours never came out the way I wanted them to
or perhaps the memories just go by another name.
I learned about homophones when I hurt you
by trying to sound beautiful. It is so much easier when we can see
morning peeling open our feelings, easier when you're here.
3.2k · Dec 2012
diamond
Sarina Dec 2012
Jesus looks so ruby red, dead
and your purring
wracks some embryo to

life, gave it a foreign ring –
hand-tested gold or
diamond surfaced from oceans:

or not, no.
No, it is just a mirror
and you are what makes it

look so beautiful, breathing
sea-salt and gasoline –
one perfect drop found a well

and down, down, down
it fell. I caught ants, I smashed
in their hissing heads.

Yes, yes, so red.
God would be proud of the
mystery you and I have kept.

We drag him along like a light,
lantern bleaching flame,
but as soon as the sun hits,

he, too, drops into a haze –
and lands cross-legged, think?
There is a jeweler up there

that makes his ankles shine,
they are bolder than the moon
cousin of his best side,

as you are mine. Mine,
some sort of wordly delight –
bravery, diamond, and be alive.
3.2k · Dec 2012
rowing
Sarina Dec 2012
I would have rowed to you
had you not rowed to me, to the city
inside our heads and outside our bodies

and one cracked knuckle was there,
the welcoming committee –
we are inside,  we are inside we are in
the most delicious parts of you and me

I breathe in some scent,
fly into another sector, another crevice
thinking love does the strange things:

I would have rowed to you had you
not rowed to me – I would have
rowed to you had you not rowed to
me. And we drown in each other, baby.
3.1k · Nov 2012
strawberry
Sarina Nov 2012
love the scratches on your knees,
meant that you have loved
somebody

or something more
than yourself, enough to bleed

in their  honor

you will bite skyscraper lights
to stop my insomnia
and put my demon to sleep

finally,
one strawberry bruise for me.
3.1k · Apr 2013
bikini body
Sarina Apr 2013
I am cutting all of my shirts this summer
to change each seam into a headband,
one that matches my stretchmarks –
twenty-two, in fact,
that are in perfect style for anyone to see.
3.0k · Dec 2012
the togetherness
Sarina Dec 2012
There is some decadent rise
limp during afternoon highs and
pulsing at moonlight, the morning
knows something I do not know –

glowing, too, at the clarity
the cut of one’s sum, you and I

we are constructed of limbs and
dumb ligaments, bolted joints
and pivots: but most of all,

tissues that bleed when separated,
is that the value our love holds?
Do our nerves have common
apexes, the sapphire ends?

How we glisten and shine,
but do not feel when torn apart –

I sometimes feel like a classic
piano you are playing, one white
key tortured by the skin that does
not match any other’s but yours,
my player’s, retching for noise.

And I will give louder than
midnight howls of a single man,
his fingers fell from his hand –

he knows the morning such as I,
waking up just to decay,

while muscles keep their color,
the sun, or absence of, gives clues:
like footprints, a duet in sand,
I should not wake up without you.
2.9k · Nov 2012
most girls
Sarina Nov 2012
most girls are simply
peacocks
and cliffs, a pair of mountains

house their dangling
hips

but the snow
is kind of blue at midnight
most girls look sick

when eternal is just it

she she she
has a dislocated shoulder

she she she
is as empty inside

most girls are bright
but jump off from cliffs
sometimes
2.9k · Apr 2013
the conductor
Sarina Apr 2013
A decade of trains that lost track
have just turned up in my esophagus,
they are all bile as I am all hands.

This is why I was never frightened by ghosts
and sea specters:

they have been inside of me
the whole time.  

Sometimes, hot coal would hit my cuticles,
I could see the steam.
I could feel something like wheels
spinning a web on my nail-beds;
something sat in me like I were a flowerpot.

All that remained were the sticks
of my skin, blood bubbling from below.

But they have been there
the whole time.
I have been a ship in a bottle,
I have been a conductor without knowing.

Fever outlined my spine with its fingers
and I felt I was being kicked by
a fetus.

I was a hallway for phantoms
that believed they still have their limbs
and if not, quills
or a fish with gills and a fin
or locomotive. Mechanical movement still.

How could I not realize
they were inside of me the whole time,

soaking up the nutrition from my throat
shifting the razor while I shave?
Thousands of train-ghosts
crawled from me by an engine of *****.

Not one knows where they are.
2.8k · Jul 2013
passive aggressive haiku
Sarina Jul 2013
I will ******* scream
until you acknowledge me,
I swear on my life.
2.8k · Jun 2013
chopping trees
Sarina Jun 2013
The last time we had *** it caused something of a
deforestation, I realized that I love men so much that I could not
possibly do their work for them. Double the amount of
calluses on my fingers and toes than there should have been:
two for every inch of hair cascading my back
when fifty-year olds would grab me and make an ocean of trees.
I cannot count how many times we have left someone
ourselves or others for ourselves, there is no difference because I
feel goodbyes in the same way that I do when I think about
missing my subway train or having hot tea
burn my esophagus on the way down. We leave people as often
as I fall in love with my thirty-six inches of hair cascading.  

Moments that did not matter, forgetting I was the one who
could have a second heartbeat in my belly
even stronger than the pulse felt in any man’s ****.

I do not want to remember you as the man who broke my heart
not long after breaking my *****, so I emptied everything
for you and pretended it was only the phone bill
I racked up that we had a problem with.
Every call amounted to a page worth of reasons why we did not
break up when maybe we should have, there were fifty
year olds making my hair cascade like rain down my back.
A precious later reminded me that I am a woman
and so I do not have to be empty:
as full as a god, there could be two lives inside of me from you.
2.7k · May 2013
parabola
Sarina May 2013
Miss mother nature, goddess of earth
your grass masturbates my feet
and the clouds cushion my bedhead –

I am alive
as the plants breathe, I
can watch myself as they watch me.

I am mundane, plain, a concrete building
brutalist and manmade
but their real existence, live vines climb
and make me seem attractive…

Even as I want to be dead,
they kiss me as a husband would his
sleeping wife –

even loving when unaware, forgetting
acknowledgement
being beautiful all alone.

Miss mother nature, goddess of earth
I am alive
no longer manmade in your home.
Sarina Jul 2013
From the age of seven, I decided it was easier
to throw myself against a wall
than to cause any harm to the stuffed animal under my arm.

I attribute feelings to everything that can be touched
or confirmed by science –
on May 23rd, the wind wanted a companion,
by July, it lived with a birdhouse, in a happy yellow –

and so I fear hurting a chair,
suffocating my hairbrush through tangles, angering some
blankets left unused at the end of our bed.

I do not fear hurt, I fear causing it. I smack my head with a
fist when mother says
that sometimes punching pillows can help ease pain
because I need to stay on their good side.
2.7k · May 2013
missing fish oil
Sarina May 2013
I don’t like cauliflower so I will feed all mine to friends
moving black specks, fruit flies on vegetables
confused
killing their dinner with cyanide
like sticks of cinnamon or garlic cubes

I hand it to bugs with my long second toe
that is supposed to mean I am a genius, but I don’t eat
cauliflower broccoli anything leafy and I am missing fish oil
from my diet

confused
I whisper into the fruit flies’ elf ears
perked up as dog eyes escape their sockets sometimes

Dogs do not eat cauliflower either or hummus
they are not even confused

Morning, we all see the same shape of the moon’s goneness
but others will eat bread despite mold
I wonder if I am one
and what have I done to the economy by disliking
cauliflower broccoli anything leafy and fish oil, as well.
2.6k · Nov 2012
a bald god
Sarina Nov 2012
I unload your god in that laissez-faire way
where the bandages mend and have no need to be placed,
formidably, regret to admit the moonshine in my hair
looking Gothic, but beautiful:
sober the men’s breath as it falls, falls, falls
not more mild than a snowstorm in its final lapse.

Sat there to be dreamt. He put his hand to his beard,
and I would have kissed if had I believed
that he was not merely trying to haunt my body,
the hair I kneaded into air.

It flowers, and flowing these marzipan sands
where God lays man next to his wife,
she bears the peaches: juicy, ripened, but not to eat
expecting us to swallow ourselves in turn, spin the bottle.
I could not care less for the braces in his lips –
or their fur, but gums beneath like peaches.

**** it out until the pulps mirror,
you have the skin of a four fruit, or an eighty,
flames high as kites. But suffering for each flicker-****
and dating a girl who smokes cigarettes in bed,
I know he could not support that, your god.

Morning comes with a glare, now eating her hair
the involvement of some odd raconteurs. I beat them
and they beat my ******* for their heat –
God is a cabin boy with genitals in his palms,
said he would love the women as long as they are gone;
if he does not see me, the flames, I cannot exist
not more than falling falling falling hair.
2.5k · Mar 2013
september
Sarina Mar 2013
September speaks in dull sand flecks
and billowing my stiffened skirt to kneecaps
rested on for prayer, grinded on for ***.

It pokes and I’ll awake –
I am just like a ***** in the autumn morn
first torn, the first born of a hundred
encounters of which I would not believe
it could be the opus of.

Ladies lose physical barriers, but they
do not evade a September when orchards are
trimmed and all that’s beneath is unveiled:
see it with my glass eye. No dust inside.

See it with your honey bulbs –
the foothills, the knees married to the floor
where stars first aligned, so I ****** you off.
2.5k · Nov 2013
sulfur
Sarina Nov 2013
She has red roses as asterisks, the star-shaped things
that are just scar shapes on me

and with her, there is
pollen
that she'll drag her fingernails across. She will
sprinkle colors on your chewed up,
cratered lips, saying you

will look beautiful and
feel full again. Well, I'll be the one to kiss you next
with grains of sulfur glued to your cheek

the rotten taste
making it so your mouth glows in the dark. I
know where to kiss and never tell: I
am sure you must notice my cigarette burns when

the lights are out. I have lit myself
like a candle,
and say
I cough from the smoke because no one can know
that I swallow all your poisons for you.
2.5k · Feb 2013
meiosis (haiku)
Sarina Feb 2013
baby makes flowers
grow in my brain and my heart
all of my sad parts
2.4k · Aug 2013
perfume
Sarina Aug 2013
Roses are hidden in buckets
a child could put one in her hair, a child could
create sandcastles up to their knees with
such. Yet these

creatures do not use his or her thorns
to intercept the road from garden to factory lines.
Funny to think one's skin shall

became tainted by something
that sleeps in peace right outside. Then, I think
about packing man into a bottle of mist
and would like to harvest my love's breath.
2.4k · Feb 2013
sour grapes
Sarina Feb 2013
You had me at least five times
none of which were ordinary & all of which were
in love. I stepped from my bedroom that night
to be handed you in a cup, the thing I want,
and when you said I was yours, you also said you
could be mine. Because we were in a garden
the scenery was made of grapes –
purple, needy, I should have known it was a lie.
2.4k · Mar 2013
sex objects
Sarina Mar 2013
Love on my toes, love in the cabinet, love jumps off balconies
it is an eighteen year old succubus offering spinal taps.
Bring the gentlemen their evening numbness before next
morning’s nightmare and ******* are scheduled on God’s map –
he just steps out for a moment, settles his sleeping mask on.

God is so unhappy: he understands nothing of love.
Get this recipe recited so we shall feed them pink and blue pills
which knobs can sting boys in the ***, a fleabite or bow
soon our leather heels chime through their ears like hooves.

The master may question their nutrition so hold out a paper cup
sloshing in female nectar, our vaguely cerise saliva
sustenance that comes from between slits carved for such –
these acids are love, love, love. Love from cavities, love pearls
knotted in the roots of a mother clam, fallopian love tubes.

Every shoebox offers warmth, complementary wakeup calls
a petite blonde to peel him out of his pajamas, too –
lay your husbands down into the doll-case if he has no love
as God is not watching here. Oh, how happy our gentlemen are.
2.2k · Jan 2014
clock
Sarina Jan 2014
I have searched for a year, who gave you two hearts
and did not bother to
cross-stitch, knit them together to touch –

more and more
you have become the day that my clock broke
and the ticks sounded like my lips
reaching out for yours, and how you never kissed me
so the tocks never happened.
2.2k · Apr 2013
timetravel
Sarina Apr 2013
June–
                  battle

     a market of sores


                       on

        a fourteen year old body


wears a cotton slip
          over head


and form


             sleep in the hospital wall
   cotton and death

all over the place

                 get a lighter sheet



she

    is a girl

        she is the reaper


she will latch herself

             and not let the poison out.
2.2k · May 2013
constellation
Sarina May 2013
Stars are drawn in the exact shape I love you –
to the moon and back, going a distance like Santa’s sleigh
making the rounds every black sequence,
the Earth does not cease rotation, so stars do not blink
or forget to twinkle when God does not shovel dark clouds:
pillows of snow that have been urinated in,
still fresh beyond the membrane of something grey.

I do not mind if you call that ugly.
I understand if my rural nights are frightening to you –
they were to me at first, they did not feel like
a time, rather the absence of
and I do not mind if my poems feel that way sometimes.

I write this because the evening never stops –
five o’clock somewhere and midnights too, which we pale
by blonde stars, the hair color of mine you despised
resurrected. Never stopping as you and I do not.

My ex-girlfriend bought me a star once,
though I did not know you then, it was still our shape
the contour of your hair clogged in my bathtub
the blue moods of mine dyed purple, almost lilac by you –
I think of how her ******* got in the way when
I tried to listen to her heartbeat
but yours is always there, never stopping like stars
never blinking in the exact shape I will always love you.
2.2k · Apr 2013
camellia drive
Sarina Apr 2013
Summer was
******* on sugarcane and cinnamon peels
handed from your grandparents, occasionally mine
when our roller-skates made love to cracks in
                             the sidewalk
          our knees were drunk on its feathers
so many specks of moss get caught in there, too

    you taught me not to cry
or have that formaldehyde-chugging look
until I hit the bunkbed; your sheets made my sweat
look so much worse
                          we got anything we could want.

I wanted to kiss you when your wore your
Popsicle lipstick, a freeze cracking the crib of your
       mouth and circling buzzards around.

But how does a girl say
   she would rather have someone than a cigarette  
      stick of candy from the ice cream man –
the ones she would twirl like cherry stems
    and feign middle school maturity?

  We would whisper about things at night
with the lamp off, our pants down
                                                   but never ever love:
love is for adults. Love is Mardi Gras in the city
           not powdered sugar from beignets
   or the kind of beads you settle around your neck.

I wanted to be the bayou you swam in,
cast your fishing pole at the underbelly of and
  counted how many seconds it took to lift back up.
I wanted to be a chest you put
         your personal belongings in, a treasure box.
Most of all, I wanted
                          to be your personal belonging
              the treasure you immediately thought of –
        but that is not what Summer was.
2.2k · Mar 2013
the call of duty
Sarina Mar 2013
Your eyes **** me.
I am dead: I put dirt in my hair
now it lives where I do,
in owl bites.
I can retell the memory of
your body crying
to resurrect my dusty corners –
bent over, tangled in candy
floss I am shivering
we are in a war.
Your movements **** me, too.
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