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Feb 2018 · 239
choking on
Natalie Feb 2018
I can taste him in certain air pressures
I can see him through the fog
When it gets too dense, I feel his hands around my neck again

And God, does it feel amazing
How he takes my breath away
Jan 2018 · 553
my house
Natalie Jan 2018
There's a small black house that I go into to hide
It’s cold and its dark, but I’m glad that it’s mine
And when the sun goes down, I hear someone talking outside
While I sit by exposed insulation and drink bottles dry
But I use his charm as a chaser that nixes the taste
It blurs my eyesight so I can block out his face
I enjoy the brokenness in everything, because it's my own little space

The ceiling fan makes me anxious and the heater is too loud, but it's a tranquil kind of place
You'd understand if you lived here

It's always before the sun goes down, and before the evening can begin
I beg for his voice to leave but I’m still dying to let him in
But he’s always been such a bad listener
He is just a visitor
And I am still his prisoner
My hands are shaking as I slowly lock the door
And I ******* hate how I can’t hold myself together and keep dropping to the floor
I can’t sleep anymore
Everything I have ever done was done simply because he exists
I’ve got a black and white tattoo of a matchbox on my wrist
For every time I want to burn down this house and he won't let me
For every time I start panicking
but I really don't want to fight
Because every time I think it's bad here, he convinces me it's alright
And I really don't want to make him mad at me again


“Let’s go for a drive”, he tells me as he downs another beer

And I wish I had the nerve to go with him and get out of here,
but I’m drunk again because he keeps leaving bottles in the hallway
And if I left at this time of night, who knows what the voices would say


he’s sliding the car keys under my door
Jan 2018 · 206
i never learned to fly
Natalie Jan 2018
If you ask me
It's almost corrupt how we hear stories and dream of places in the sky that we cannot reach because our wings are clipped and we cannot fly
These perfect places mock us, they leave us questioning our worth
I've jumped and tried to reach them, only to fall back to the dirt
I want to find a haven, I want shelter from this rain
But I'm nothing but a frail and fragile bird hitting window panes
I lie around and, with open arms, welcome my fate because I'll be a skeleton before I get to heaven if I keep moving at this rate
They're watching as I fly, only to crash back on the ground
And I've hoped for so much more than this, but all my thoughts are bound
I accept I'm being hunted, but I don't ******* care
I accept that I am dying, but I guess it's only fair
I beat these wings on shattered things that scar and rip apart my skin
I shield my eyes but still go blind from all these wrongs I try to hide
I build my foundations on rotting nations that will soon decay and put my hope in tattered ropes I wear as necklaces each day
I wail and shriek and cry when I can't hear that still small voice
But am I really truly listening when I keep drowning out the noise?

I am nothing but a sparrow, but I can't be worth more than they
When I cry and pull my hair whenever I receive another day

I'm a bird in it's flitting
Please unbend me
Natalie Jan 2018
I could tell you the exact day I became complacent
I can recall the way he parted his hair and the way he touched a steering wheel and the color of his eyes
And how he cared enough about me to make sure I didn't drink and drive
But not enough to stop mixing my drinks all night
And since I can't stand up for myself, he watched as I fell apart
I am a marionette with a broken string but ****, he's a master in the art
Constantly moving me; bending my frame and pulling my wires
And keeping me onstage whenever he desires
But it's hard for me to play my part and keep up with my lines
When I come home smelling like a different cologne each night
When I am just an empty canister he keeps bringing to his lips
Begging and pleading me to offer him something with purpose

But it's always the same story:
He fabricates me
I break and I bleed under his idea of my self discovery
And my selfish idea of recovery
Out of every sweet name or ***** word he's ever called me
I think I've found that "Lonely" is my favorite thing to be


I haven't lit a cigarette in weeks, but tonight I'll light three;
One for him, one for me, and one for the person I swore I would never be

Listen;
My biggest flaw is that when I settled for feeling comfortable,
When I settled for what he told me I was
I never even bothered learning self-love
Jan 2018 · 211
Sinner in a Saints Body
Natalie Jan 2018
She saw God in the things like her morning creamer and the shape of the clouds during summer
But not much past that
Because when it came to showing love and giving people what they need
She wanted to sow a barren field without planting any seeds
She wore her faith around her neck instead of on her sleeve
If it wasn't for the Infant of Prague on her dresser and those Rosary beads
I would have no idea what it was she was trying to teach
All of them are unwilling to admit their imperfections
Because all the repercussions are held back by their holy impersonations
Their sins will never fade and their souls will never be saved and the devil won't be tamed
By her crucifix collection
I'm sure the Lord is much more forgiving than she made Him seem
She takes every communion drop and lets it fester poison in her bloodstream
God turned the water to wine that made its home in my lungs
And while He took away the rain, it still made me flood
Because knowing I made it through His downpour wasn't good enough
My hands are folded in a prayer, but they're covered in my blood
Praying that He will come to my pity party and fill me in on all I've missed
That He'll take me into His arms just so I can feel that He exists
But Satan has been writing my invitations and my Lords not on the list
So lets toast this wine that kills us and celebrate dying young
Because the devils watching me, and he's got a silver tongue
And of all these Bible stories, I don't know which part I prefer:
When Judas sold my God or kissed him when he left
Compared to silver coins, I dealt Him in for so much less

They'll hold their noses high and boast their goodness to the sky
I know that I'm not perfect, in fact, I'm who they criticize
They spit on me and cast me to the side
because those who sin differently are worthy of no pride

Her church may close its doors and throw me away
But it's okay
I don't want to worship like she does anyway

I still see God in the fall breeze and in the dying autumn trees
But not much past that
I'm writing love letter to my Saviour with a marker on red helium balloons
Each one holds an apology
I hope I hear from Him soon
Jan 2018 · 191
I Don't Talk Much Anymore
Natalie Jan 2018
I have finally found my voice
Or at least, what's left of it
The voice you muffled behind a cotton tie and washed away with gin
The voice that crawled into your ears and crept behind your skin
The one that bit the bullet and the one that pulled the pin
The voice that was my greatest strength, but wasn't strong enough to sin
"Precious, I can see your veins, you've got to get a thicker skin
I know it's cold outside, but maybe if you'd behave, I'd let you back in."

I will scream into your face until my cheeks turn black and blue
I'm sorry darling, but I don't answer to you

How dare you keep my locked out and quiet while I freeze in the December breeze
I was never yours
And I never ******* will be

I don't talk much anymore
Jan 2018 · 168
it's her
Natalie Jan 2018
Our nights of lying on the broken pavement and spilling ourselves into the cracks are over
But honestly, it may be better this way
Because at least now I'm not dreaming up ways of how to fill in the spaces between the concrete and the grass
And you're not scratching up your elbows on the pebbles and the glass
I know you've cut your hands a few times, but now I'm not stuck cleaning up the mess
Don't think I haven't noticed your cologne pressed into her dress
I've seen her love letters in your pillow case and her silhouette
Gliding awestruck on your curtains
I wish I was as beautiful as every word her mouth has ever spoken
I've seen more of her lipstick on her teeth than I've seen on your neck
I bet she shows more love to glass bottles than she ever could to you, except
At least the alcohol can give her some kind of bliss
The smell of wine on her breath is the venom in her kiss
You think she knows love, my dear, she's simply brushing the tip
of it

Because with me, you were more than happy to get your feet wet, but I think it would have drowned you to dive in
I knew you were never strong enough to swim

I was a language
You never bothered to learn how to read
And I was a dance without a song
And you couldn't follow me

But we are just so different, her and I
She dances on the moon and she shakes hands with the stars
Shes a bustle in the city and the mystique in passing cars
And love,
I could never compete with that kind of art

I guess it's true
That one mans trash is another mans treasure
And you are the soil of the earth that endured my violent weather
You are the ground that holds me, but the wind that severs
And I would ask for it to be different, but I could never question Mother Nature
But I will always question why I am
The way I am

I know you'd rather feel her nail marks in your back than me drawing down your chest
You'd rather hear her drunken laughter than the whispers on my breath
I hope you'll realize there more lipstick on her mirror than there is on your neck
And I can't help you then
I won't wait forever
I'll let you handle the rest

You'll go on living
I'll go on breathing
But if you ask me, dear
Those aren't quite the same thing
Jan 2018 · 260
To: Body. Love: Mind.
Natalie Jan 2018
Have you written that letter yet?
....
You naive soul, do you know the first thing about apologizing?

For singeing your eyelashes every time you relight a cigarette that's burned too far down
because you can't keep anything ablaze for too long
Letting the ashes fall off the edge and dust your floor and burn through your jeans and scorch your car doors
Putting the flame out on your neck so no one else has to leave their mark anymore
Because you're still blackened from the last person who charred you

Did you apologize yet?
For letting tequila run your mouth so you don't need to
And leaving slurred words hanging from your drunken lips
that propose no substance other than the poison you fill yourself with
Don't you know how to apologize?

You've put so much love into another body that you've forgotten to love your own
You are a garden that let weeds infest themselves in your home
You have branches in your build that tear through your fingers when they're overgrown
And their thorns rip your arms and the roots replace your bones
But have you even said you're sorry?

You're broken and you're beaten and you're bruised
You think you're nothing more than what he made you feel in that blackened  room
He may rinse the bloodstains from your bed sheets
He might wash the sins from your allure
He can hold your crying face in his palms tonight, but honey, he can't be your cure

Have you written that letter yet?

For pulling at your naked sides and thinking, "This is as good as it's going to get"
You've found more comfort in breaking down your vessel than you've found in accepting it
And you're still suffering the repercussions of the last blade you bit
Telling yourself, "I'll quit, I'll quit" but two things cannot stay together if they never fit
to begin with

have you done it yet?

Have you forced your brain to stand in front of your body, and say through muffled cries, "You never deserved what I put you through"?
Write out the apology now
Sign it in the blood you drew
Mail it with the dead branches in your framework you outgrew
I know you're broken and beaten and bruised
But you're so much more than what you feel alone in this room

Have you said you're sorry to yourself yet?
Natalie Jan 2018
I learn so much from watching you garden
The purple petals of the lilacs paint your fingertips
and marigold pollen dusts your palms with gold
The small brushstroke of dirt on your cheekbones dances every time you speak
And I would bet a whole bouquet on the fact that if you unbuttoned your flannel,
roses and daisies would make an escapade towards the ground
Now with me,
Oh love, with me
The colors rooted in me once upon a time are something that I no longer know
The flowers growing out the tips of my fingers withered down to the soles of my shoes
No matter how often I watered them, they never seemed to bloom

That's the irony in falling in love with the gardener
That's the irony in falling in love with something so alive
The rawness in how something so torn into could love something so well put together
And your hands are so soft, even the flowers cannot compare
I hear them whispering in the sway of the breeze,
and they are envious of your touch
Because the lilies cannot compare to your delicacy
While my hands are a cracked desert, yours are the sunshine that plays parallel to your smile

It's the first day of spring
And I'm watching from under an oak tree as you plant seeds
And I'm writing this poem for you to read eventually
Whether I'll ever show it to you, I guess we'll know in a few years
But please, don't let these words be wasted

I thought you didn't hear me when I asked you, "How is it that you love life so much?"
But maybe you answered in your smile
Maybe you answered through the way you made me feel
That day you touched my barren, deserted hands

You were a vibrant tone of yellow
And I was a dying shade of blue,
When you touched me, our colors mixed to a brilliant green
It was then I realized you answered in natures hue
I realized this is how it feels to be alive
Maybe you can help me get used to feeling this way
In high school, for a creative writing class, I had to write a poem about falling in love and someones hands in the same poem. We had to put them on an anonymous forum and choose our favorites in the class (really weird looking back like who cares?) but a lot of people up-voted this one and I decided to share. Very very OLD piece so plz no judge hahaha
Jan 2018 · 5.2k
father vs. Father
Natalie Jan 2018
Growing up, I was taught the story of two men
One built his house upon the rocks and one upon the sand
And I learned the difference between humility and pride
I was taught to differentiate the foolish from the wise
Because when God sent the rainfall and the waters began to rise,
The house on sand crumbled right in front of thoughtless eyes
And my father would tell me, "Darling, don't build your foundation in the weak, in something that might die"
But I've been constructing my home on gravel my entire life

If there is a God
Why did he let me build my house upon the sand?
Why did he lay down every brick and let the nails tear through my hands?
I am an urchin in the dirt leaving claw marks in the earth
And my cries fall from my mouth and cling to my tattered shirt
If there is a God
Then why would he call himself a Father to me?
Why would he want to break my heart and crush my dignity?
He prides himself on the ringing in my ears
and his mason jars of tears
Instead of being my faith, why would God want to be my greatest fear?
If heaven is where he is,
then hell is anywhere but here

If there is a God
And he's my Father
And he is so divine
Then why did I grow up so sick and sad and tired all the time?
Why would he instill doubts from Satan himself for everyone to see;
"You're inadequate
Inadequate
That's all you'll ever be"
My mistakes render me useless,
At least, that's what Father says of me

And if there is a God,
And he's my father
How could he walk away as if nothing ever happened, although I have seen it all before
Because what happens in this House of Heaven stays behind closed doors
He would enter his bedroom, and leave the door open just a crack
So when he would read his Bible and show us how a true Christian should act
I'd turn to my little brother and say "I wish one day we'd be holy like that".

The mortar in my walls are breaking and the water is rushing in
I wish so badly to repair it, but I've always been like this
The dirt I fell in twenty years ago is matted to my skin
The cuts on my soul since childhood are all I've ever been
I'm sorry Father, for I have sinned
And I have nothing good to show
And I don't mean to point the blame, Father, but sin is all I've ever known

If there is a God, would he let me stand before his throne?
Would he take me into his arms and treat me as his own?
Would he wash my ***** shirt and let me stand where the saints have stood?
Would he help me build a house upon the rocks
Like a father should?

I wonder if I can build it well enough to reach him
Because my current house can't as long as its this way
If there is a God
I wonder what he'd say
about me

I am the prodigal daughter you never learned about in stories
Jan 2018 · 169
The Arsonist
Natalie Jan 2018
I could light my clothes on fire to rid them of the smell of your cologne
or I could singe my palms for every time you held my hand, but still made me feel alone
I could strike a match against my collar for every time you cursed my name
or burn my fingertips on worn down lighters and let them swallow me in flames
I could let the ashes douse my passions and let the fumes dance up towards heaven in the sky

And if God asked why you were crying,
you'd say the smoke got in your eyes

I hope my name burns you, just like you burned mine
I hope it hurts you
I hope you hurt
Jan 2018 · 168
I Want My Colors Back
Natalie Jan 2018
He said I was pretty when I got upset
He said it was cute when I cried
He thought I looked beautiful with mascara running down my eyes
He liked the black that stained my cheekbones, probably because it was all that I had left
When I finally sat up and tried to catch my breath
And the words that I screamed into the mattress swam across the bed
And the colors that ignited me were shriveled up and dead

He held my rainbow that seeped
From my skin to the sheets
And the shades of my dreams
Poured right through the seams
He caught the colors in the same palms that held me
The same hands that bruised my wrists
Into the fingers that seized my hair and the hands that grabbed my hips;

"You can't possibly drive home with the makeup stinging in your eyes
Darling, stay the night, you're just so pretty when you cry"

I watched my shades run down my arms, they stained the corners of my dress
But I would rather be his "pretty" than be someone else's mess

I've spent the past thirty minutes dismantling the jagged pieces
Biting their edge and screaming confessions at the bathroom door
I'd pick up all my colors but they've soaked into the floor
This is my last letter to him, I refuse to write anymore

I'll see if I still feel grey tomorrow morning
Jan 2018 · 229
The Study of You
Natalie Jan 2018
I've read your story a thousand times
I've blown through every chapter and I've savored every rhyme
And I have picked apart the meanings and I've looked for all the signs
But I only found myself in how your pen bled through the lines
I found myself in the accidental ink spots that seeped into the next page
And I was in the binding stained with coffee that smelled of lavender and sage
I found myself in the worn down corners of the paper from hands that couldn't help but touch
Because while the language is your master, I was just your crutch
I found myself in the scratched up vinyls you spin on repeat, I'm in the tense air their sound cuts through
They're old and skip around a bit, but still they'll play for you
It's in how your bedroom walls hold your truths and your pillow holds your lies
Your sheets hold my perfume while your ceiling holds our eyes
The nightstand holds my teacup, the Darjeeling you couldn't stand to touch
Because while it burned my hands to hold it, you said it was never hot enough
For you
You must have caressed my frame with your gaze a hundred times and with your hands a thousand more
I bet you could read this letter as often as you tried to kiss me
And still not know who I was writing for
You could find it on your bed, marked with my lipstick and bordered with lace
But you would still drop it to the floor and mutter, "That's nice but what a pretty face
You have"
I guess I can forgive you, but you'll need to forgive me too
For being someone who would rather be remembered for how she loved
Than for the love she made to you

While our stories will be written differently, our graves are all the same
Inside
But writers never die, my dear, so I swear I'll keep your name
Alive

I know you said I'm not the best with words, but I'll keep writing just in case
You come across my story and realize that you deserve a place
To stay
And I'm sorry every cup of tea I've ever made was cold and had no taste
But I would remake it every morning if it meant I would wake up to your face
Please stay

You're always welcome in my book

— The End —