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Alexandria Hope Mar 2017
In the museum of hands and arms and moving bodies,
There is a door.
Beyond the smoke and fly paper and Cheshire grins.
Had I made it to the door.
Had I become just like them
My flesh torn raw and tendons burning
Against their acid, make-shift garb
Had I not held readings of poetry,
To garner their harrowing attention
As I sought to free myself of the Pupa
In gauzy tops and linen skirts did we dance as the criminally insane
To a waltz of unsung potential
Did I not willingly take the potions and laugh, as they laugh
Did I not willfully indoctrinate the freshest among us
Those fighting, frightened souls, eyes trained on the door.
The door.
How I see it now, a beacon and damnation
That I can never step outside it, now.
Charlie Chirico May 2014
It was raining.
On this damp May evening, my mother turned to my sister and asked her to refrain from speaking to me.
Pensive is the word she used.
My sister heard the word "pencil" and thought I was sick with lead poisoning.
I remember her checking the room for different writing utensils, she was looking to hide them as you do the knives when the depressed family member comes for a visit. Such a sweet girl to take the graphite and leave the eraser. I'm sure it was a subconscious gesture, or made with complete disregard, but nevertheless I was smiling.

The first time I fell in love, I was standing up straight, head over heels. A web browser was open before me, asking the difference between love and anxiety. Later did I come to find that the former and latter are more similar than most know or care to know. One night while looking at her lips and glancing at her eyes, she told me I was adaptable. That was the first time I questioned love for lust.

My grandfather started crying.
His hands, those of a carpenter, were holding his face. There I sat across from him, hairs on my neck standing, praying for him to speak first. He always spoke first. He would also tell me to stop him if I've heard the story he was going to tell, although I never did. But the story happening before me was one I wanted to stop but couldn't. Never have I seen this man cry, and that would be the only time I ever would. Two years later he had passed on peacefully.
By then it was my turn to cry.

Some remember the words they've spoken. Others the words they've heard. But I can recall all of the times I've sat in silence. The moments and memories I hold in the company of the ones I love or have had love for are some of the more quiet times in my life. The only quiet which can rival that told above are the times that I've spent putting word to paper. And those are the quiet times I can't remember offhand, but I can always revist. Those quiet times are kept in the walnut filing cabinet.
Right beside the
photograph of the cabinet maker.
Alexandria Hope Apr 2019
Ghost kisses across my skin,
Gleaming white from the blade,
Music notes seeping out under my sleeves,
The days I cut with rib-bones like a knife,
They dreamed they could save me,
Drag me from the depths of my self-hate sea

I said I was made of stars, they burned bright,
In phosphenes and fluorescents in the night

Said love could save me, be the one thing that wouldn't hurt
Only self love saved me, though I'm content to have the memory of notes unsung,
Of nights unspent,
Of kisses too long ago to have had,
to have burned.
Original Magic in Me was from 2015.
Melanie Beth Oct 2011
Restless and forsaken
Fingertips shaking and heart racing
Her head is not at home on her own pillow
It is simply too empty without him

Alone she tosses and turns
Doubling back to revist her regret
While trying to move forward all the same
Yet nothing will ever be as before

It was a simple summer setting
Nighttime rain the product of an overcast day
She drove home alone with tears to rival it
But no thunder cloud was as black as her heart

Breaths become gasps
The heart inside her must belong to another
For she left her own with the boy of her dreams
Left it with him and then left without him

To this day she cannot cope
The memory haunts her and will not relent
She is lost along a path she has never known
Footsteps follow her wherever she goes

Truth cuts to her core
As she tries to deny its presence
Finding a dozen reasons not to love him
Is not enough to justify the lies

She sifts through her thoughts
Trying to tell herself he is not perfect
Remembering the times he has inflicted pain
But the truth remains she is guilty of more
Francisco DH  Jul 2013
Revisit
Francisco DH Jul 2013
I have to revist the past for the past contains you
I wish you were not in the past but in the present beside me
I wish that the future contained you and me but
I am not sure what the future holds

No one does

— The End —