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Kate Livesay Jan 2021
I bought some chapstick.

You said to get the kind you use,
So it’ll remind me of you.

In the parking lot,
I unwrapped the tube and spread it on my lips,
Indulging in what felt like you.
The moisture repaired my cracked skin.
A fresh start for my xerosis.

Honey flavored!

I didn’t think twice.

When you called me two days later,
My body froze with your news.
I knew you’d dump me.

Not so sweet after all.

And now I have this ******* chapstick,
Honey flavored, mind you,
That brings me back to a place of a past time.

I use this chapstick everyday,
Hopeful that one day I’ll actually use it all.
What we had will be gone.

Two months have passed,
And I can’t seem to make a dent.

Will you always be around?
At least my lips are always moisturized.

As I moved on,
I watched the parts of you that lingered in me
Completely vanish.

I began to notice,
The chapstick isn’t honey flavored.

It’s scented with hellos,
Flowering bushes,
Springtime summersaults,
And fresh cider.

Every spread of that chapstick tube I use,
A part of you peels away,
Like the dead skin that previously surrounded my lips.

But the more I stare at that golden, honey design on the chapstick,
The more I come to realize that it’s just chapstick.

Nothing else.
No more,
No less.

haley Oct 2017
you
had a chapstick tube
stowed away in your bag of things you never put to use
those scarred chapped lips
scratching, tearing
crevice of your mouth craved my heart
bleeding, uncaring
and subsequently my mango chapstick would serve it's purpose
on your lips and never mine.
among other things, you had a pair of white socks.
you never wore them,
too pristine
(you'd ruin them as you teetered on slippery suspended logs)

you reminded me of a cracked open window,
always hoping you would be at the mullioned panes
chapped lips, white socks and all
but the only thing that pushed against the glass was the scent of mango air.
and
mango never smelt so bitter.

when
will you come home
replace the mango air with your feverish cologne.
a swaying of the breeze and your tee shirt wraps a cotton arm
around your waist
the bitter aftertaste
your tongue like grapefruit wedged against my teeth

i missed the smell of burnt bread bottom,
when we were in the kitchen
and the gown of silver hemmed water that danced down the roof,
tapping
again and again and again
but, when you come home next month.
I will be gone.

the mango
around our home
had long since
turned bitter
and that brown picket fence no longer bends around my heart
i am somewhere where the mango still smells sweet
and
boys give my their chapstick for i've long since run out of mine.
Latreece Rose Jan 2015
He said my cocoa butter chapstick lingered
in his taste buds.
We shared only a kiss,
mouth to mouth
lips on lips
tongue with tongue.
As if two strangers,
we had no draw until
we kissed
like a universal pull
of gemstone energy.
He told me he craved
my cocoa butter chapstick
for it had a hint of peppermint
that made his head spin.
Sean C Johnson Feb 2013
I remember the taste of your chapstick
original flavor plain as you were, a taste insipidly vapid
I remember everything up until our last kiss
that fades into the smoke of memories I burned with your box of letters
cut with the strings of you that had me tethered
disappointment doesn't hold a flame to the fire burning inside me now
I'd wail and cry aloud
but the ocean cares not of the downfall of man
knees dug into the sand
arms outstretched, a shameless attempt at holding the sky
as close as you once held my
body more rigid than it's fragile contents
I remember the taste of your chapstick and I never knew what that meant...
Jeremy Mackey Feb 2012
My lips are still blisterin,
From all that whisperin, that
Made me kinda sick, so I
Search for my chapstick, but
Find in it’s stead,
A pen, orn’ry and red,
That chooses to be used,
And true to my cue, I
Seclude and intrude
On each and every muse-
-ic, -ing, -ment, of my peers.
And its clear I have seared
Every page I have seen
And heard of my herd,
Pulled apart at the seems
Teeming with teams
And half-assessed dreams, that I dreamt
But have since beheaded like queens.
Yet who is the jester? The joker? The fool?
It’s me from your world, your country, your school.
It’s me who coos uncool, and caws too rawly
And so rarely, Even I’m a bit scared of me
No! No fear or fervor is necessary, tremors and
Heartstrings tremble headlines on the Daily.
Oooh, calm, soothe, my tongue, my soul, my lips,
I’ll cool them off but remember all this, or else you
May be blistering, and searching, for my lost chapstick,
But be lacking in trust, ‘cause I used it all up,
Quite a long time before you even lusted that luck.
Alysia Michelle Jan 2015
tears ebb their way gently out of my eyes
and trace a pattern on my cheek
leading to my lips
filling every crack that chapstick couldn't fix
the salty taste it leaves
still doesn't rid me of this bad taste in my mouth
sadness never tasted sweet anyways
my lips are still chapped
so i'll brush my teeth and rinse my mouth
desperately trying to rid of this aftertaste
i put on chapstick because one day
i'll cry and at least the cracks in my lips
will be fixed
chylee plunkett Nov 2012
This is a poem of a girl. A girl who is so cliché, that she needs to write angst-filled poetry to keep herself conscious and her thoughts free, but is too hipster to believe it. A girl who is too freckled to be fair, too fleshy to be flirty, too conspicuous to be classy, too prominent to be petite, but too small to be seen. A girl who’s piercing blue eyes absorbs everything and regurgitates emotions like a tampered slots machine—excessi vely and noisily. This is a poem of a girl who is so over-stimulated with color, texture, love, and life that the numbness in her head is a pink eraser. A girl who was brought up to have opinions and dreams as long as they kept her on the path to perfection, poise, and parenting. A girl who is experienced enough to know the difference between sorrow and guilt, manipulation and cowardice, hysteria and hyperventilation but is too naïve to know why certain boys are a bluish green, why math is a bafflement, and why ground up chili peppers in dark chocolate ice cream isn’t everyone’s favorite food. This is a poem of a girl who salivates at the mere thought of classical music, couture fashion, and feminine heels. A girl who breathes in culture like a caterpillar inhales hookah smoke. A girl who Alis volat propriis (flies with her own wings) but ultimately plummets to nosus decipio (Let’s just cheat) because her humanity held down her Heredity. A girl who thrives on music of every variety: as long as it can paint out her emotions in front of her. This is a poem of a girl who is so acerbically witty and harsh that she could unarm Napoleon but is so vehemently protecting that Mother Theresa herself would be awed. A girl with an attention span of a fish, short-term memory like sea foam, thoughts that outnumber armadas, and a bad habit of dehydration. This is a poem of a girl who talks but shouldn’t, speaks but doesn’t, and who is so badly burnt by the enticement of affection that her wallflower camouflage is now charred ashes around her stubby toes. A girl who has such infatuation that she could pin Lust against the wall and make Passion jealous. A girl who wears red lipstick because she knows it will keep a man’s gaze for 8.2 more seconds than with chapstick and the 50’s will never grow old. A girl too nervous and traditional to make the first move, but too strategic and over-analytical to lie back and forget. A girl who loathes the word mamihlapinatapai because it describes her every circumstance since the day she befriended the purple-brown boy who thought her personality tasted of Raspberry ice cream and to this day she still can’t pronounce it. This is a poem of a girl who needs a bed so crowded and protected with blankets and pillows that her monsters can’t penetrate her mazed-up mind. A girl who drinks tea with her lips, and philosophy with her soul. A girl who can’t spell the alphabet backwards but can make great mnemonic devices. A girl who can’t tie ends together because she doesn’t want to leave anything unsaid but whose tangents are kite-strings. A girl whose sentences are distracting fences in front of her literal eyes but doors for her mind’s eyes. A girl who has Synesthesia but keeps it quiet because of the condescending kids in kindergarten who called her a freak, and a liar. This is a poem of a girl who thinks about Death and whether he is a snatching thief or just the ferryman. A girl who dances with her eyes shut, her heart open and her toe-socks on. A girl who will clean her room at 2 am because she can’t handle the sight and the night is too lively for sleeping anyways. A girl who wears her heart not only on her sleeve, but on her chest, open as a blushing book playing poker with hockey players and still winning a game. A girl who’s emotions are kept in a Tupperware box and left in the refrigerator but if you shake it hard enough the lid just might pop open
LS Jul 2015
My most favorite thing
Is when they still have long hair
And dress like guys do now
Not super baggy pants
But not form fitting either

And you take them to bed,
Or, knowing stems,
They take you to bed.
And all that manliness
About them is still
Just barely there,
In the ***** of their shoulders
And the way their hands touch you

But then they get undressed
And it's the most beautiful
Combination
Of boy and girl.
They're so fresh and confident
But not cocky

They're respectful and talented
And it's like they try to only
Show the manly side

But then you get into bed
And it's like unwrapping
A present
That only gets better
Every time you unwrap it

A little piece of their femininity
Uncovered just for you,
In that moment only.
I miss girls.
Mariah Nov 2012
I'm sick.
No, not meaning 'dope', or 'awesome'.
Like, 'hey! Let's shoot Mariah in the face cause this
Sinus infection is killing her!'
My only friends right now?
My dog.
Maury.
Chapstick.
and
Jell-O.
robin Mar 2013
her mouth was sandpaper.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like
a smooth surface,
words scraped into fluidity
like a wooden sphere,
turned over behind teeth ‘til all friction
is lost.
she spoke like the walls of a birdhouse
in the room of a dead carpenter:
pretty unassembled things.

her mouth was sandpaper
and every kiss chafed,
rubbing raw my lips
and tongue
crafting with each touch
drawing blood like
juice from an apple,
like sap
from wood already cut from the tree.

her mouth was sandpaper
and she told me
i bite my lips,
rip at
the inside of my mouth,
cannibalize myself cell
by cell.

bone saws in her mouth.
the only difference between teeth of jaws
and saws
is mercy
(and she swallowed her mercy long ago).

her mouth was sandpaper
and she spoke like a carpenter’s hands:
rough palms,
tough pads,
a utilitarian artist
a crafter of dead flesh.
a mortician for dryads
and kodama.
the art and the artist
in lips
tongue
and teeth.

her mouth was sandpaper
and i brought mine to hers
again and again,
her bitten-rough lips
opening like doors to
purgatory.
less entrapment than addiction -
returning once more to nails and hammers,
hell’s blacksmiths below
heaven’s painters above.
coming back home
to the space between,
to bone saws
and a carpenter’s hands.

her mouth was sandpaper
and her voice was carpentry,
her teeth bone saws
her words
birdhouse walls.
her mouth was purgatory
but her hands
were hands.

her mouth was sandpaper.
i held her hand
and chafed my lips raw.
samasati Nov 2012
I believe in smiling at strangers. I believe in saying hello. I believe in shyness. I believe in fear of rejection. I believe in the need of affection. I believe in the need of reminders. I believe in candles, especially those that smell of vanilla or christmas. I believe in wearing small crystals around my neck. I believe in energetic vibrations. I believe in colours - I think each person has their own colour. I believe every feeling is valid. I believe in chapstick and I believe in mascara that doesn’t clump. I believe in nail polish - every colour of nail polish. I believe that the only reason we lie is because we fear something. I believe in poetry. I believe in bluntness. I believe in the intention behind words, but I don’t necessarily believe in words. I believe in travel. I believe in travelling solo. In fact, I believe in travelling so much that it is pretty much all I want to do. I believe in music. Boy, do I believe in music. I believe any kind of musical composition can change a person. I believe music can cure depression. I also believe music can feed depression. I believe a melody can say more than lyrics and I believe that lyrics can be what someone couldn’t put together themselves to explain exactly how they are feeling. I believe anyone can create a song, even though they believe they cannot. I believe a single note can sound like the most beautiful sound in the world. I believe if someone records a song when they’re in an ugly mood, the ugliness emits to its listeners and can drain them. I believe in art. Of course I do. I believe in acrylic paint. I believe in oil paint and watercolours, but not as much as I believe in acrylic. I believe in fingerprinting. I even believe in painting with your toes. And I believe in dancing; even if it looks weird. I believe in flailing your arms even, as long as it feels good and right. I believe in dancing ‘til you sweat, though I don’t like that icky feeling too much. I believe that a babe can be a very ugly person and a physically unattractive person can be a very beautiful person. I believe that people who smile are beautiful. I believe that people who frown are beautiful too, just in a different way. I believe that there are sincere smiles and there are manipulative smiles. I believe that some people just know how to use their eyes well. I believe in eye contact. I believe in engaging. I believe in listening and dropping everything else that is going on in your mind just to listen to what a person is trying to share with you. I believe in sharing - sharing cookies and sharing love. I believe in the frosty cold. I believe that it doesn’t have to feel as cold as it really is. I believe that people complain a lot. I believe that people often have too much pride to be happy. I believe that we should embrace our discomforts and shames, that we should welcome them wholeheartedly so that we can be happy. I believe in honesty. I believe in empathy. I believe in tea. I believe in jelly donuts but only on certain occasions. I believe in quirky bow ties. I believe in knit toques and mittens and scarves. I believe in dresses. I believe in flirting. I believe in coffee in the morning. I believe in big comfy beds. I believe in walking around your empty house in your underwear or birthday suit, singing loudly. I believe in singing in the shower. I believe in singing on the street. I believe in stage fright. I believe in meditation, though I don’t really strictly set times to do it anymore. I believe mundane activities can be done in a meditative state of mind. I believe in clarity. I believe in not judging people because everyone is human. I believe every human has something very interesting about them. I believe in boring people too. I believe in christmas music - not the radio kind, the choral kind. I believe in cheap sweet wine. I believe in Billy Joel and I believe in The Beatles. I believe in Regina and Sufjan too. I believe that the ukulele is a very overrated instrument. I believe in having healthy hair. I believe in moisturizer. I believe in getting to pick a coloured toothbrush at the dentist. I believe in thick wool socks. I believe in baggy sweaters. I believe in yoga gear but I do not believe in sweatpants. I believe that yoga is one of the healthiest things for a person - ever. I believe in buying a friend drinks or dinner once in awhile. I believe in collecting shoes and scarves and rings. I believe in chords but I don’t really believe in jeans. I believe in hot chocolate with whip cream but not with marshmallows. I believe in dorky Christmas sweaters. I believe in baking cookies instead of cake. I believe in eating disorders - I do not support them, but I do believe they are much more severe and various than most people think and I believe there should be better/proper help for those who suffer instead of the usual cruel inpatient/outpatient care. I believe in trichotillomania and I believe in dermatillomania and the severity and impact it can have on its sufferers. I believe in gardens. I believe in every single flower. I believe that everyone is always doing their best. I believe that most people love to struggle. I believe in hope. I believe in having faith in yourself. I believe in iPod playlists. I believe in gym memberships in the winter, not the summer unless it’s to swim. I believe in matching underwear every day. I believe in Value Village. I believe in singing in bus shelters when you’re waiting for the bus. I believe in dressing up according to holidays. I believe in Grey’s Anatomy and I believe in Community. I believe in skirts and dresses that twirl like the ‘ol days. I believe in longboards more than skateboards. I believe in plaid like most young people do. I believe in bows in my hair, but not as much as I used to. I believe in foot massages and hand massages. I believe in reflexology and reiki and essential oils and chakras and crystals and holistic nutrition. I believe in anxiety; even crippling anxiety. I believe in awkward romances. I do not believe in flip flops. I do not believe in Beatles covers unless they are really insanely good; then my mind is blown. I believe in having long enough nails to scratch someone’s back appropriately. I also believe in biting nails. I do not believe in telephone calls unless I am extremely comfortable with the person. I believe in blogs. I believe in journals. I believe in naming special inanimate objects like journals, instruments, technology and furniture. I believe in the idea of cats more than I believe in cats. I believe in sharpies or thin pointed permanent markers. I believe in temporary tattoos. I believe in streaming movies online. I believe in royal gala apples. I believe in avocados. I believe in rice cakes. I believe in popcorn. I believe in airports but I hate the LA airport. I believe in openly talking about *** but I don’t believe in making it seem shameful and gross. I believe there should be no shame regarding sexuality. I believe in reading some great books more than once. I believe in laying on the couch under cozy blankets, watching a great suspenseful tv show or movie. I only believe in having a couple bites of cheesecake. I don’t really believe in lulu lemon. I don’t believe many people can pull off the colour yellow. I believe in buttons over zippers even though zippers are easier, they just look kind of dumb and cheap. I believe in the sun and the moon equally. I believe in closets over dressers. I believe in staring out the window for a good hour or so.
M B H Jun 2013
Most are jealous of a person
who stole
their loved one away
but I envy the Cherry Chapstick in your pocket
that gets to kiss your delicate lips
every few hours of the day
Sweetheart Nov 2014
I see it
can't reach it
but almost there
fall out of my chair
get up, gotta keep goin
trip over a book
get even closer
can't give up now
just about there
I got it, i gots
my chapstick.
Something I wrote almost 4 years ago!
One of these days I will be standing on your porch,
Facing a you with one of these babies in hand.
On that day, it will be my nape you see last
As by then you will have learned
Not to look into my eyes.

The memory you will salvage as you close the door of our tryst won’t be
         that time we bought the tube at a gas station with some Dr. Pepper,
Nor the forever we disproved in the name of circumstance,
                    Nor the never-ending ending,
               the looking like the bad guy, and the
          what-always-happens.

No -
what you’ll remember most with that tube of what-used-to-be chapstick
          Is the feeling of pretty pink petrolatum over the seams of your lips,
               The every time you didn’t pop the slippery white cap off,
                    The 23 flavors of us and then one,
               And the trembling, the ever so slightly and off-key apologetic,
          At the lingering taste of a something you yourself didn’t finish.
Ineffable Oct 2014
You're like Chapstick.
I use you when I need too, even though you make me feel better your only mine for a short period of time .
I don't hold on too you .
You mean nothing to me.
If I lose you I'll look for you .
If I can't find you I'll replace you .
Aaron McDaniel Dec 2013
Smoke is filling my bones
The carcinogenic ghosts of an irish ancestory
At war with my german temper
Fueling the fire
To a heart that beats for belonging
Keeping me in step with the frostbitten sidewalks
Of a December morning
Lips moist from french vanilla cappuccino
And your chapstick

Smoke is filling my bones
I'm rolling through my own fingertips
Losing touch with my own reality
Wondering if my knuckles are white from clenched fists
Or the grip around your palm

Smoke is filling my bones
You don't smoke
Yet you fill your lungs with my exhale
Breathe me in
I'll house myself in your capillary beds
Where I'll tuck myself in for the night
Listening to what makes your heart tick
kali ma Apr 2010
You are the rock stuck inside of  my sock.

You are drying off naturally after the longest shower in history, because you forgot the towel.

Like the string that is hanging off of my sweater.  I keep tugging it and

pretty soon it is short enough for July weather.

The person using the car horn instead of ringing a door bell.

The low battery symbol on my cell.

Pungent perfume from a co-worker, the grossest smell.

The **** that asks for the red piece from your package of sweets.

The friend who cancels five minutes before every time you meet.

The rap artist that thanks God when he wins an award, even though his

songs are just about killing.

Medical technicians milling about when your arm really is broken.

The chapstick left in the pocket when the clothes are in a dryer.

Dress pants for work that are so tight, you feel you must be riding a wire.

The friend's children that you think are rude,

Unexpected company when you and your lover were getting in the mood.

But I guess it is just easier to say, I just don't have a good attitude.
Hayley Coleman Dec 2014
And now the future is palpable,
And I can almost just barely taste it
On my lips
Just like the chapstick
I applied 15 minutes ago.
The future is in my range
And I can just barely smell it
Just like the perfume I applied this morning.
I can smell it faintly, when I notice it
But times the smell disappears,
As I get used to it;
only to be reminded of it
When I receive a hug of congratulations
And my friend will say, "You smell nice".
And in that moment I sniff my sleeve to try and smell myself
And get frustrated when my chapped lips feel rough against the texture of my shirt.
So I reach into my pocket, and struggle to find a small skinny tube,
I grasp it in my fingers and apply it to my lips
Afterwards licking them,
Smiling,
Because I can taste the future once again.
Love is chapped
It's rough and enflamed
I lick its surface with my tongue
My saliva only just stung
So as I wait for the flames to disitigrate
from my unprotected lips
Your balm fills in the cracks
and sheilds over them
and the rocky terrain becomes calm.
She said she'd pinprick your watershed
Leave alone , it must be bled
A cold and somewhat silent shiver went through you

She tossed your hair with fingers flared
Before she rapes your lips she says she cares
And cautions ,"I am no where near through with you ."

She rips your shirt , rakes your skin
Over and over again
Till blood trickles down upon you

She licks you dry
And praises the sky
saying, "God is jealous of you guy ."

Then she sits upon your lap
Knocking off your tip top hat
And throws a ****** to you

The first and third lines rhyme
She takes away your time
Makes you scream in agony and ecstacy

All of mercy . , .
More on mercy . , .
Tasting pain  . . .coated in pleasure

The memory lingers
Burning like a scorpions stinger
And now your mallingered aren't you

The second and fourth are lines of choice
Developed rhythm for the course
And you grade your decisions running through you

She left you dead , hurt your head
And then she fled
Tossing your heart into the river

Your grateful that you live
but still you go on and grieve
Or at least wished you did

As you are trying to relate
All you do is quake
And start to uttering

"All on mercy . . .
More on mercy . . .
Have mercy  . . .on me ."
Dust Bowl Jan 2015
I carry my backpack, and the addition thirty pounds of stress that goes along with it.
I carry an MP3 player, filled with 1500 songs that make more sense to me than any math lesson ever has.
I carry a necklace from the 1800's that no one in my family cares enough about to remember who it originally belonged to. We both carry the feeling of being passed along.
I carry a notebook with letters I'll never have the nerve to send. I carry a pen that's been through more with me than any of my friends.
I carry my scraped knees and a tendency to fall to the waste side.
I carry my father's temper like a hot coal in the pit of my stomach. I carry his high expectations and my mother's victim complex. All three of which are, apparently, hereditary.
I carry Chapstick, Neosporin, and band-aids. Because things crack, and things break, and some things tend to cut.
I carry the same mindset as an Oxford comma and a worry of being replaced. We both carry the feeling of not really mattering.
I carry my uncle's divorce, & the way we buried him only a year after the papers were signed. I carry the way his ex wife's grudge is stronger than her children's love for their family.
I carry the dream catcher my dad keeps in his room, the one I got rid of years ago when I realized nothing would keep my nightmares away.
I carry the time my hero had his heart broken and spent the next year at the bottom of a bottle.
I carry the headstone that marks the beginning of my abandonment issues.
I carry a .037 fl oz tube of eyeliner in the hopes that no one will mess with a girl who always looks like she has two black eyes.
I carry a pre-med major that will never make me as happy as it will make my parents. I carry my family's hopes on my back & the way I feel like an emergency room with no more room left for patients.
I carry my best friend's name like an obituary I never got to read. I carry the way his head hit his windshield faster than it ever hit my lap, and the way I've hated sitting in the driver's seat ever since. I carry the way I never want to be invited to another funeral & the way each body they've buried makes me feel like I'm already 6 feet under.
I carry the mattress I slept on as a child. Pink flowers & blue satin & cold sweats detergent couldn't fade. The one I spent an entire afternoon scrubbing bloodstains out of, hoping my mother wouldn't notice when she changed the sheets. She never did, or at least she never asked, and sometimes I still wish she had.
I carry how my friend thinks her high school boyfriend breaking up with her is the worst that could happen, and the way I hope she always does.
A response to "The Things They Carried" by Tim O'Brien (a book I HIGHLY recommend).
Carrie Ross Dec 2011
I prefer the chapstick
to the lip stick.
I have nothing to hide
while the red stained ladies and gents have little to show
Dane Johnson Dec 2011
You, girl, surely are no standard lip balm.

Uncapping joy – the end not often reached.

What that was said about kissing girls with cherry chaptstick:
It is surely truer than is a smile being contagious.

Yonder eyes, oh, my greatest of demise.

With you gone,
I am without life’s swan.

Of wavering size, warm, and safely claimed in my pocket.

Steadfast and moisturized, you bring life through the cold.

I have been branded, and rightfully so.
My Scarlet Amora Dec 2014
I saw your chapstick in the store the other day
I stood there just staring at it
Do I even need chapstick?
No.
But it has the taste of you
And god I miss that
Now my lips feel permanently stained with you
You linger on every word uttered from my mouth
I can't stop licking my lips
Ive never even had a real grapefruit
M Feb 2014
To tell you exactly, specifically, precisely why I love you
I'd have to reinvent an alphabet, create a language, learn to sign
The feeling that bubbles within when I look into your eyes cannot be captured or explained

I feel like the world stops moving
My breath struggles leaving my lungs
All my fears, worries, washed away

What is so powerful about loving you
is the way you love me in return
I feel confident, unstoppable, beautiful
You tell all the dark parts inside to quiet
whispering, no shouting to them:
I am worthy of love

To be worthy is all that I have ever wanted,
needed,
cried for in the middle of the night

Although there is still so much to learn about each other
Adventures to be had, moments to share
I am giddy with anticipation
your love gives me strength
Replenishes me
Fulfills me

I have yet to really write down how I feel about you until now
I've been afraid words would take our magic away
I'd wake up one morning and realize is was a mere dream

You steal my chapstick with your kisses
Put up with my sassy abrasive nature
You encourage me to work
The way you look at me sometimes gives me the courage to begin to look at myself the same way

With your arms tightly around me, our legs intertwined, I begin to imagine what heaven could actually be like

When I'm with you, I say I love you honestly
Eeach time is unique.
I realize how incredibly lucky I am to have you
to be loved by you
every syllable is as sincere as the last

You make it okay
All the bad, dark, sorrow filled places within me that sometimes consume my light.
You accept those places,
You make me forget they even exist
You make my light shine brighter

We joke about my ego
but since you have been in my life, I feel okay
Even when I'm not, I know I will be.
Granted, it's not solely what you do for me but what you let me do for you
You allow me to love you
Accepting my love
welcoming it like you would a long lost friend
you do not turn and hide
you embrace me with arms open wide

It's magical
It's what I've waited for my whole life

What I spent so much energy convincing myself I could never have

It's everything that I'd ever want and more
It's love
It's life
It's you
brooke May 2013
There was a tube
of chapstick in the
lapel of his jacket
and i wondered
silently if it
might be
the same
as a kiss.
(c) Brooke Otto
Patrick McCombs Oct 2015
I want my lips to taste like cupcakes
and for that I have you to blame
I've purposely cut the brakes
and I think you've done the same
with that one decision
we have come to grips
that there will be a collision
between our lips
and as my lips crash into yours
I can feel you smile when we kiss
I see your eyes soar
and we experience bliss
Maia Vasconez Dec 2016
My foreign friend once went through my bag and found a bottle of ibuprofen. She said I wonder if these are her anti-depressants because if so then they're not working. Once my friend, excuse the bruise, my friend thought the rope in my room was meant for a noose. Once I regected food all day and so she spooned the meal to my face. She said "good girl" when I made myself a sandwich. She used to cringe every time she saw my ****** up wrists. She said her dad ******* when she was a kid and once she took a pen to her own skin. She said you know that feeling when you throw up ice cream? and I was the only girl who got it. Who really, really got it.
So, I remember sitting in the park by the waterfront smoking flavored cigars. It's starting to get dark and your leaning on my arm. I wanna split a cigarette but you're saying how I always get the filter wet. You were both the hardest and softest girl I'd ever met. We got our cards read that weekend. The tarot lady said I'd fall in love, I said bring it on. Well, I remember nights in a used hotel room, wound up on the bed was the only time you let me hold you. I used to give you chapstick every time you asked for it. You said you only missed me when your lips got chapped. and those days we weren't friends were the worst ones that I don't remember too well. I forgot how we both pulled the devil when we got our cards read. What I remember is that you were there for the worst anxiety attack. It's still funny cause you're the only one in the room who was scared. And the next day I'm dead inside and somebody's in my ear telling me about how they're making an effort to be friendly and I'm the problem, I'm not reciprocating. You ask me why I'm wearing a hat, It's so I can hide my shame under it. Today I don't have a voice, I can't talk. Can't say what I'm upset about. And I remember somebody telling me that if I thought happy I'd be happy which lead to break down sobbing in the bathroom and you came in and talked me out. You never blamed me, never thought what happened to me was my fault. And you listened to me spew about what it's like to have no friends and to hate yourself so much. And you didn't ask questions... you just loved. Loved, loved, loved. So much that I saw it building up in myself. That first jump into the pool in our sweaters and sharing showers and drying in the sun. Listening to you mumble in your sleep, combing through your hair with my thumb. And you said the first time you saw me you thought ****! Another girl that's too pretty. I think we should still be... lying on a sun lit deck. You're reading my books, I'm wearing your shoes. We should still be out on the lake, eating lunch in one of those big red canoes. We should still be jumping off the dock, yelling when the fish swim near us. We should still be up on a hill where we can smoke and watch the sunset fall to dusk. I should still be waking up late in your tent and stealing the blankets. We should still be up all night talking politics and arguing semantics.
So yes, I remember lying in your arms those last few nights while watching shooting stars. Those nights I wished so long and hard to never feel lonely again, I realized this summer that's my biggest fear. And this summer! This summer I feel healed! You bandaged me up so the good bye was rough. I felt like child peeling old band aides off.
Before she left she told me what I needed to fix about myself. In our soggy t-shirts, we have our toes diped in the water. She grabs a pool noodle out of my hands and as she bends it in demonstration says I have no back bone she can take whatever she wants, she can just have it. I'm too flexible. But she opens up, tells me about the guys she's ****** and how she's never really been in love. She tells me about her girl crush. She says if I'd told her I'd loved her first, "like I SHOULD have" then she'd of been crushing on me instead. I just wish I could have been the one to drop her off at the airport. I helped her pack her bags and watched her slam the car door shut. It's different when you're forced to be apart, she didn't have the chance to make me hurt. I count the miles that seperate us. Guess I'll just love her from a distance.
This is probably the longest thing I've ever written. I've been working on this for a month and a half I think but I'm not sure how I feel about it. It's a true story, my summer with a British girl. We were in a big city but also spent most of our time in the woods in the middle of nowhere. Anyways, suggestions always welcome!
September Nov 2013
You come and go
and all I am left with
is a month of confusion—
half-feelings
and 37 songs on itunes.
Light Jiro Dec 2016
Cherry Chapstick on chattering lips,
That feel the chill of loneliness,
A thin layer left by the lips of another,
I can still feel her kissing me.


I can still feel her laying on me,
Breathing softly on my skin as she caressed me with her fingers,
Falling asleep as I caressed her,
I could feel our hearts beat as one.


The feeling of being with her,
The feeling of being with you,
Chiseled into my memory,
I see your face before me,
As I once did.


A night without sleep,
Not spent thinking of you,
But being with you,
So beautiful are your eyes.


Forever lost within their silent gaze,
Unable to be seen in the dark,
But surely felt,
Never forgotten.


Laying in the darkness,
Immersed in your voice,
You were the entirety of my being,
You had full control of the beating of my heart.


How swiftly did you fill my heart with love,
After a life of pain and emptiness,
Promptly did you break it,
Your honesty stings.


If I had only known that how close we would become would push us away,
Unable to see you, feel you, as so briefly I did,
I would have never dared set my eye upon you,
As you dared me to do.


I close my eyes and I am with you,
I feel your lips on mine,
And it makes opening my eyes to the reality of you not being there all the more painful.


Now I wait in pitiful hope,
That what you said was not true,
That your feelings will change,
And again I shall be with you.
kairos Oct 2015
you and i,
we meet under the stars

our passion for each other
burning as passionately as the stars

we meet with chapped lips,
the cold air ****** out

we burn despite the cold
we musn't stay warm.

i don't know how long the fire will last
you've rekindled me but now i'm afraid

i don't know how this will end
will this be a tragedy also?

you watch me struggle in the distance,
i've told you everything about my past

but you'll end up leaving like everyone else
so this time i'm not going to hold on as tight

i don't know how this will end
maybe i will just leave

if i leave before you do
that wouldn't hurt for me,

right?

ohh,
my heart is like my chapped lips

cracked and deprived of precipitation

i think the aridness is going to drive me wild
my mind has become a desert

blowing in the emptiness,
the cold of the nights

ohh,
my heart is like my chapped lips

broken like ceramics

you have the chance to fix it,
but you have a bigger chance to break what's left over of me

i think i'll just cover up my insanity
with some chapstick on my lips

so no one sees my thoughts
that come from below and up above
Carlo C Gomez Jul 2023
The cocktail waitress in the corner

Tonight she skates at Roller City

In polka dots and ponytails

Her lips pursed and polished

For she disapproves of most everything that offers little reflection

No bringing your own music

No pinching the dancers

She moves to a secret sound

Regarding herself as an international spy

In the house of fun
s Apr 2016
6 years old
loves barbies
plays outside
learning to ride a bike
shes getting taller

9 years old
loves chapstick flavors
walks outside
rides her bike everywhere
she is the tallest in her class

14 years old
loves mascara
runs outside to burn off the cupcake
bike sits alone
she is the biggest in her class

16 years old
loves black
runs lines down her arms, she doesnt see the sun
she drives around for hours thinking about everything but nothing
she is shrinking

18 years old
loves loneliness
runs and runs and runs from herself
she drives around hoping that she will be strong enough to make it home
she is breaking
slowly

20 years old
loves skipping meals
goes running until she feels like she's going to pass out, then runs another mile
she drives around thinking about her suicide attempt and thinks about heading home
she doesn't even know if home is a place or a feeling or if its real
lines going up her thigh now because she found out that wrists make people worry

people don't understand the process of self destruction
it started a long time ago
and it will never end
until she does.
sloppy
Shashank Virkud Sep 2010
Coffee on my breath,
wearing a frown.
Sunshine, my sweater,
my soul turns brown.

Lips slick with chapstick,
chics' licking sack n' ****,
drag off a ******* *** n' lean,
obscene in the sense,
the ******* ****' a drag queen.

Rival the bible,
hell to sell any,
whats worse, church
bells smell ugly
under my nose.

I chose the shallow dirt
road to death, even the
tallest tales hail the same frail fate.
Fill my urn to earn my fill,
**** it.

There is no still
frame to capture the moment,
fracture the film and leave it alone.
Yellow toned, below me,
sallow, cornered in color coordinates.

Drenched cover but dry at the core of it;
dazzled by ****, dazzled by diction,
you write the dirtiest fiction
and I'm the ******* ***** in it.

Leather bound, cable wound,
leather bound. Black.
Leather.
Shashank Virkud- From As the Distance Grows
JFK Dec 2017
You asked me what I needed
I told you I was set
You sent me mango chapstick
I never would have guessed

I laughed, “why this?”
You weren’t amused
A long awkward silence
Left me confused

You complain it gets cold
And your skin gets dry
Your sandpaper lips
When we kiss, I cry

So I sent you mango chapstick!
On a slow summer evening,
cherry-stained and giggling,
I sit on one side of the porch and
you both on the other though
it is going to take you two, with
your green eyes and red fingers like
chapstick or popsicles, 100
days in a fast space ship to reach me.
Hopefully the cherries you’re bringing
along won’t spoil before you arrive
on my alien planet (alien though
you share more of my
molecular makeup than any others)
and in return I’ll show you some new
creation but in all fairness I should
be thanking you for who I am
because it was, after all,
you two who shaped me.
Feb 2017

— The End —