Your lips whispered a curse and brushed against mine. Soft, like sparrows' wings, inebriating as wine. I know I am lost now, wandering so many city streets wondering if you'd find me here and take me off bare feet. I am calloused, I've become raw. How can you, so far away remember me at all? The lights are turning on now it will soon be dark. Tell me how to live without a heart.
Will he buy you chocolates? Will he buy you flowers? Will he put your pleasure first and worship you for hours? Will he listen patiently? And will he understand? Will he still be there for you when things get out of hand? Will he be your everything? Will he be your best friend? When you're not feeling yourself will he comprehend? Will you be his Goddess? Will you be his Queenie? Will he write you love letters and spicy poetry? Will he let you vent to him? Will he be there for you? Will he always treat you right, will he always love you? Will he buy you chocolates? Will he bring you bouquets? Will he take good care of you every single day?
written after a girl a was interested in chose someone else
i wish i never liked women, there’s so much going against it anyway. i’m a coward. i hate myself. i hate myself for wanting to be selfish, while knowing in the same thought that i’m the most selfish woman in my life. but if being selfish means someday i could look into your eyes several sunrises in a row, it couldn’t possibly be that bad. to see the meadows of wheat surrounded by moss in your eyes makes art from here to infinity look like mud. i would untangle the thorniest bush i could find if it meant your heart was in the middle. i can already imagine my thumb brushing a smile onto your lips, my hand cupping your cheek, while the softest nothings are exchanged. the thought of you, and everything you come with moving into my life sounds like a dream. but it’s not one to come true. i don’t get to let myself get lost in your eyes, running through meadows. my head knows that, my heart strings still wail, i try to quiet them. give them a drink… or a few. but after the glass is empty they no longer have anything to occupy them. and they sing your name again
There is a dead beetle on the floor in the bathroom. It has been there for weeks. Someone must have noticed it but paid it no mind. More than someone. Someones. No one has bothered its carcass. Its legs are curled in at odd angles, not unlike an infant sleeping. Someone would notice an infant sleeping. An infant sleeping on the floor of a bathroom. Or an infant dead in a bathroom on the cold, grey tiles.
The color of its dark body is in stark contrast to the light floor, but still it is ignored. Have I been bright enough in this life to stand out? Am I light against the dark? Or dark against the light? Will I be remembered? As I slide through the experience of living, I don't know what impression I've made. Am I the dead beetle? Will I be the dead beetle? My life has not been bold. One may only presume the same of the beetle. There are too many people in this world for me to be a true stand-out. I merely exist. No matter my color against the background of life, I am simply waiting to be swept away. As inconsequential as a dead beetle in the bathroom with little attention paid.
There is a saying that everyone dies twice. First when you leave the mortal realm. The second time when your name is last spoken and your memory ceases to exist amongst the living. What if you never live and are paid no mind. Can you really die then? What if I am not even the beetle? What if I'm less than a drop in the bucket in the universe and I slip through the cracks of society? At least the beetle gets a poem.