i have these dreams, smelling
the three-AM summer night
through the screen of my window.
my hands are pressed against my
stomach. i am in bed and i keep my
eyes shut the entire time. i am
trying to hold everything inside.
my hands trail up and down my
arms, im begging
myself not to forget your lips,
i am holding every place you touched me
permanent. i am tattooing the way you
look at me to the spaces of my fucking ribcage.
in these dreams, you have always just
left. i can still smell you on my skin and
in my hair, on the clothes that need to
be washed, on the sheets.
my fingers are gripping the bedframe
and im begging it not to change. the Sun falls
in and the dust falls over and over the blankets
in a rhythm that makes it look like your
side of the bed has life in it again. my hands are
around my throat and on the back of my head,
looking for places that have a trace of you on
them, looking for pieces of you that you might have
forgotten to take with you.
in these dreams, i am hollowing out the
walls of my body, trying to find every memory
so i can feel it vein-deep and to the bone, you have
always just left. i am always just looking around for things
to replace the space you used to occupy.
when i wake up, and its still dark out, the dust stays where
it always has. the Sun won't even help me pretend that you're
still here. when i wake up, its like you have just
left all over again.
sometimes i know i need to
write about you because my
body will start to buzz like
there is electricity inside of
my veins and i will itch
to get rid of your eyes in
the back of my head, and even
if i don't exactly know what to
do with my hands they will
trace themselves over your
memories and they will whisper;
do you remember when you
were in love? do you remember
when you had it all? and i keep
writing to erase, i write and drink
and try not to remember how it
feels to lose you, every time i open
my eyes i lose you again. i write
to keep my hands busy so my chest
doesn't ache and no parts of me
whisper your name to the dark but
i could write for-ever and
i would still break pencils in half
and keep my hands clasped to
avoid any painful wandering;
of course i remember.
how could i forget?
its one of those moments where i want
to crawl into your skin, underneath your
palms and trace my fingers on your neck
the moon has nothing to say to you anymore,
the ocean is defiant, She won't look you in the eyes.
the stars keep falling in and
out of place How did you let it get this far? and
your head is between your knees and you're chanting
I dont know, I dont know, I dont know, and
i want to wrap my arms around every part of
you that hurts, twist my limbs over the pieces
of you that ache for the sunlight, How did
you let it get this far? There is no force in the
Universe that respects me enough to respond. All
eyes of the world on my fingers burning marks
into your flesh, How did you let it get this far?
There are black holes, it
is all empty, planets are hanging on your answer and
its one of those moments where i want to expand
into your kiss and tell you that you are your own God. and I would let
you tear me apart with your teeth.
it is called she, hers, her and it was named after a poem i wrote on april 15th of 2017 after i had gotten my heart broken and i decided to turn it into art because i didn't know what else to do with it. im not great with speaking words, my mother always tells me that prose is not my forte, and i believe her. anyway, i wrote a book of poems, because its the only thing i know how to do. actually, i've written two. you can find the other one on my twitter (@altyrlog) because i feel like im breaking rules by linking things here. sorry, hellopoetry. they are both free to read in PDF form.
she hers her: http://docdro.id/s4EJay8
thank you for sticking by me and giving me the encouragement i need when i throw up words and put them into stanzas and then plaster them all over the place. you make me want to not give up.
i will love you forever and ever and ever and ever and
ever and ever and ever and ever i will love you until
my lungs give out all i know how to do when i look
at you is love you all i can think about is your eyes
and your face and your smile and your hands and
it might make me weak or naive or an idiot or falling
for the same old tricks, but i just want you to know, that
if youre reading this, like really reading it, i dont care
what happens i will love you forever and ever and ever.
its not a love poem.
its a poem about your mouth,
your hands on my thighs
and around my throat and,
its not a love poem.
its a poem about your eyes,
all the way across a room or
an inch away from mine, like theres a difference,
already gotten a taste and you're asking
for just a little, baby just give me a little bit more.
its not a love poem.
its a poem about your words, all of your
unkind, your hands around my throat, your
eyes that have twisted my gasps into mockery,
all empty like you've tasted just a little bit of blood
on my lips, on my wrists, my thighs,
and its an inch away, just a little bit,
baby just let me give you a little bit more
I. watching a lot of sit-com television. i notice when the audience forces their track-laughter at all the bad jokes.
II. listening to music from the seventies. i had to get new music taste. all of my old favorite songs have your name written in the lyrics, i turn them off as soon as they come on.
III. reading a lot of poetry books. sometimes, people write things and i feel like they are coming directly from my fingertips, like they know exactly what you've said to me and how hard it knocked the air out of my lungs.
IV. writing. sort of. every time i try, i feel like it is more diary-entry and less poetry. i am scared that i made myself a new person and this one doesn't want to feel anything.
V. kissing people. i keep my eyes closed. this new persona i've adopted doesn't want to tell you what i think about when he puts his hand on my thigh.
VI. not calling. sometimes, i write out long messages and i do everything but press send. i feel like i have to record how many times i almost do, oh my god, i almost do, but i don't.
VII. talking about everything. i never stop talking, it is something you used to hate about me, something about a bird in my chest always trying to free itself. sometimes, i don't always say the right words. another thing you used to hate about me.
VIII. wearing everything but the clothes you gave me, everything but the sweatshirt i slept in while you were away, everything but the dress i wore when you kissed me first, everything but the t shirt i wore when you kissed me last.
IX. writing. sort of. writing about how if i had known that was our last kiss i would have dressed nicer, or held on longer, or not walked away, or kept myself from crying.
X. doing everything, absolutely everything, so i have no time to slow down and miss you. i haven't slowed down enough to tell if it is working. i can't tell if i am a new person without you or not a person at all.