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Hope Paschall Jul 31
I feel awkward.
This word is clumsy on my tongue, yet it leaks through the gaps in my teeth, flowing over my lips like the lies that come so easily to me
I've been making up stories my whole life, until I have mastered the art of least resistance, until I can be the china doll human everyone wants to see me as
Flawless, untouchable, with a stare that can rattle your ribcage
But I still have a beating heart, mauling itself to meet her unattainable needs
She never hit me
With fists or words, the stereotypes of abuse that I am so used to hearing about, and god, I burn for the people that find reasons to stay
I don't know why.
I don't know that control can be this awful, sticky word, that bending over backwards for someone is as good as relenting to fists, crying in silence, slicing yourself open so that others can't
I don't know that this is valid; it doesn't feel like oppression, just normalcy, what I've always known to be true
I don't know that the holes in my stories do have a name
It is not defined as a label, a sticky piece of paper putting into five
letters the emotions my tongue cannot find a name for
In the beginning, she gave me life.
I can only hope I am brave enough to take it back.
Recently I learned...
Hope Paschall May 25
They say that when the universe breaks, it will expand forever
When all life has been devoured by fire and the lonely sphere of our planet is no longer, who will remember?
There will be no one, no person to memorize, to create
Listen to the sound of space contorting itself to change, bending to the counterpart of destinial destruction
We will die not knowing our own names
  May 25 Hope Paschall
Simoné
It took me seven years
to realise
the words in my mind
were too deep for
my mouth to dig up
I thought it was easier
to open my skin
and let the truth
pour down my arms

It took me seven years
to realise
nobody should be allowed
to touch parts
of your home
or hold pieces  
of your heart
that you don't yet understand

It took me seven years
to realise
I will wear these scars
forever
I'll carry them
through every smile
every kiss
every concerned gaze
I'll carry them
to my grave

It took me seven years
to realise
the pain carved
into the walls
of my castle
etchings of
attempting to disappear
are not a story of weakness
but a tale of
how I survived
  May 25 Hope Paschall
Meera
He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come
That's how true poetry comes into existence
Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished.
Like us, a draft
of what can be called
"the both of us."
A draft created
that's open for change.

A change
to be better
---better
than who we are
or what we are
in the midst of the conflict
that floats around us
for the sake of us
for the both of us
---for each other.

A change
to be smoother
---smoother
with no mistakes,
with everything
in order;
consistent,
and coherent
even with the dialogues
we say that matter.

A change
to be clearer
---clearer,
meaning it is
at least what it is
meant to be conveying
with no underlying
vague wordings
when it comes
to our feelings
---for one another.

But that's there all is:
a draft
of what could be called
the both of us;
a product
of what we can become
if we make it become;
a product
of the possibilities
of what can be us,
of what might be us,
of what is it between us
between the fragments
of the words,
the lines,
and the series
of all of them
that constantly paint
faint descriptions of us,
descriptions
created [fabricated]
in my mind
like a work of fiction,
of pure imagination.

Unfinished,
unpolished,
unfurnished;
unpublished,
l­ike the poems
I wrote for us;
like the poems
about us;
like us, a draft.
8.31.18

for her
Hope Paschall Apr 26
Let the emptiness between my fingers be filled with the gentle kiss of your skin
Share my warmth beneath your sheets, dreaming wide awake
Drown under the weight of our masterpiece
Take my truths and hold your own flame up to them
Show me compassion in the lightness of your fingertips caressing my body
Give me the honor to trace the scars on your skin
Read me the map of your heart so that my feet may always know the path I must take to be next to you
Use your tongue to fill me with promises, and your body to keep them
Brand my wrists with the flutter of your lips
Dance through this life to the sound of our heartbeats
Wait for me on the other side
this is your poem, my love
I re-edited this one...it just didn't seem good enough the first time
Hope Paschall Apr 23
You come into my life and steal my heart like it is yours to take, and I fall, face-first into the wilderness that is your body
The dry savannah that is your soul
Parched for rain, only drinking once a year when you actually let yourself feel
But it is dried upon in patches of regrets...the "Oh, I was joking" and "You were nothing to me"
You take more than you ask for, feed thousands of beings that somehow survive on the wings of your empty promises
Are fed by the lies that you feed me every night when I wake up and you are not next to me
Still, like the sunshine you say I am, I return every single day to you to give light to your darkness
To hope that maybe someday, some of the warmth that I give will come back to me and fuel my fire
You orbit around me, and my gravity is too strong to push you away, but too weak to pull you any nearer to me
You fall prey to other stars, idolizing them like you wish you belonged in their galaxies
Call me by my name and let me read the pieces of your lips
I touch them already with my own; the Braille I read there coaxes me into believing you actually love me
Addicted to you the way my closest friend is addicted to caffeine,
I crave the touch of your fingerprints, your body, your being
Crime scenes dust for evidence of a killer; I search my skin for any trace of you
For something that would remind me that your touch will stay for seven years on my skin until it sheds itself and starts anew
I should want to be rid of you
Throw me to the vultures
Let me drown in the heat of my own sunlight
Throw me into space, watch as my features crystalize, take your eyes to my breath as my last one escapes the body you held, look at me as the last words that form on my lips even then whisper
"I forgive you."
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