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kristi Oct 20
i used to keep my knives sharp.
when i was young i craved the violence.

but when i grew older i found out
what the world could really do to me.
and, well,

the knives i keep now have dulled.
kristi Feb 2017
I wouldn't predict where all this could have gone,
I should've, I didn't, I chose not to - and for why?
I pay the price for dreaming and dwell on,
in repose. And so loudly, my thoughts kept I.

I cut myself free of this tangled twine,
that which did not connect us anyhow.
The hope, the foolishness, it was all mine.
Not yours, just mine. I failed to see 'till now.

And so I'm not angry with you anymore,
it didn't make sense for me to be anyway.
It's a waste, and admonishment is a chore.
I can save bitterness for another day.

We work well in some ways and not others,
And we make better friends, but not lovers.
I had to write a sonnet for a class last semester - and what else would I write about other than unrequited love? Haha. I found it recently and I still like it so I thought I'd share.
kristi Dec 2014
when did you get so jealous
and when did your heart fill with ire

parce que, je ne sais pas pourquoi
je suis comme ça
et j'espère la réponse vient vite
"because, i do not know why
i am like this
and i hope the answer comes soon"
kristi Aug 2014
this was already decided upon by the stardust and meteorites long ago,
i'm sure.
these things don't normally work out for me, anyway.
the planets tried to align for me this time
(I think) but
i missed the landing by a long shot.

these things don't normally work out for me, anyway.

i don't know why i thought i could fight these atoms of mine when
they were set in stone and they know of all the history that
came before me, concurrent to me,
that will keep moving ahead after me,
in a steady straight dirge
before my toes have even touched the concrete on the ground.

no amount of hope propelled up into the atmosphere
fueled by the heat of my existence,
from the tips of my fingers
down to where my palms meet
would've helped me, anyway.
kristi Jan 2014
i was told that
when a rose bends at its bud
you can revive it with warm water
and in twenty-or-so minutes,
it should come back again.

but
what if things don't pick up?
how do you know it's not
too late
to even try?
when do you know to let a good thing go, and
when do we cut the chord?

how do we know when to reconcile
with our
friends and our fathers
with our
sisters and mothers
?

where did this love turn into resentment,
and how do we turn back around?
...
should we?
...

sometimes
we must decide
when
to keep a lightning bug in the jar for
one
more
night

or if we should let the butterfly out of the net
for good.

tonight, i think
it is
only
my own blood
that may bring these roses
round again, but
sometimes my persistence gets the best of me.

if only i knew better,
right?
...
i hope some day i won't be saying
"this was all fun while it lasted."
kristi Jan 2014
i yearn for the horizon line where
my skull meets the wall.

where the astral impact sparks,
fireworks,
on contact
scattering my ashes and
returning my atoms back
into the universe
where they didnt quite align within me
the way they wanted to
the first time.

or maybe i can dig into myself and
my reddened hands can
shovel out my engorged, heavy soul
that sits in lieu of the intestines that keep my stomach full.

instead: tonight
at 3:27
my forehead will gently kiss the mirror just as the shooting stars may
graze the skyline.
i will gaze into the galaxies laid low within my eyes
and peer as far as i can
without losing touch
without tripping into pitfalls
and wonder

when did i get so jealous
and
when did my heart fill with rage

because i used to not be so bitter,
and i used to hold much less contempt for
the world who seemed to
so eagerly grant my own wishes
to everyone else around me
but myself.

the most agonizing part is
the way the universe refuses to speed up or to slow down
not even for me. (not even for anyone else.)
no matter how hard i slam my fists into the pavement
no matter how high levees roll back into my eyes
no matter how low my heart capsizes into the overflow of my chest
when  my lungs deflate
and my head collides with the night
that beckons me.

if i close my eyes, and go through the motions
i pray that i learn how it is to be at ease
and things may,
or may not.

but, in the meantime i will wish for nothing more
but my return to sender.

— The End —