"collarbone" poems
hello,
have you been
well?
i guess not,
for your attention
in my poem
could tell
sorry if this nurse
took so long
in finding
the perfect words
to cure
your soul
first,
strip your clothes
and
stand at the mirror
gaze at the
creature with
the foggy figure
there's
a sinkhole
in those eyes
and a temporary
stitch whenever
you would
smile
the collarbone
which hides,
suffocates from the
blanket of skin
with
sickening lies
it penetrated
and
corrupted your mind
ignored the
fact and just
romanticized
the beast
will **** you,
please
don't find
it ****
the chaos is screaming
later on
you'll be
empty
i know how
a reflection
cries
you lost yourself
you lost you
it's like
having a stray cat
beneath your
tissues
a wandering stranger
sails from
the memories
of truth
overflowing blood
choaked
your dilemmas
too
it mimicked the
fire of hell
in those
shoes
the greatest harm
you'll ever
cause you
but why a
nurse
and not a
doctor?
listen here,
you are your
fighter
the cure and the pain,
which decision
will define?
all i can
say is,
save yourself
from death,
because
it hasn't
deseved you yet
go ahead
and fight your
way to life
Jul 20, 2018
Jul 20, 2018 at 3:51 AM UTC
i’ve barely slept,
i’m running on adderal and self loathing,
a mix that has kept me alive for far too long.
i’ve barely slept,
i want you to kiss me until our lips are bruised and touch me hard enough that traces of your fingertips can still be seen on my skin.
i’ve barely slept,
i miss the feeling of someone’s mouth on my neck,
the feeling of gentle kisses starting at my collarbone and falling lower and lower and lower.
i’ve barely slept,
i’m running on adderal and self loathing,
when what i really need is to find my relief in you.
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 9:01 PM UTC
I feel flesh on fire
light my skin
and name me pleasure.
All hands
and waist
and thighs
and bare.
Lips not only inhaling
what the other exhales.
I still trace my hands on my collarbone
the way you did that night.
I named my pleasure after you.
Jun 9, 2022
Jun 9, 2022 at 4:34 AM UTC
Pink Sakura, Pink Sakura.
Oh where do I begin.
Adrenaline, knees separate, a touch upon your chin.
Pink Sakura, Pink Sakura.
From there do I descend.
And down your neck and collarbone, sensation stirs within.
Pink Sakura. I whisper words.
You bite your lip again.
I feel them all, Pink Sakura, the goosebumps on your skin.
Another inch. Pink Sakura.
I reach your abdomen.
Another breath you can't contain; the fire and the sin.
Pink Sakura. It's getting warm.
I wonder where you've been.
I'm drawing near, it's softer here. I pass a subtle grin.
Pink Sakura, Pink Sakura.
Your heart is beating fast.
I find my way beneath the lace.
Pink Sakura, at last.
Nov 19, 2018
Nov 19, 2018 at 6:39 PM UTC
I rise impalpable
from poked and scattered ash.
Memories from the 20 years I lived
leave a crimson rash
on my skin once as white as snow.
the skin they began to scar
when I was 11, too young to know
that they were not just scars.
they were the marks on the bark
of a green, tender tree-
marks of men (or brutes?)- wild
and untamed.
there was nothing left of innocence,
nothing left of rainbows.
I did not have my days to play-
instead I was being played with.
I, a delicate ***** white,
stripped and whipped and sold.
a love-bit nape, blackened sight,
named the girl of gold.
but no more, no more.
I have risen from the depth
with my soft body rugged
and sour breath
and teeth marks on my collarbone-
like it was only yesterday.
men and their laughs-
tormenting and know-all,
conspiring my fall.
Now that I'm awake,
risen from my grave-
(they were kind to give me one)
I shall give them back the scars
they etched upon my heart,
I shall give them back the pain.
the little purple bruises.
I shall torture them quite insane
and they would die,
they would eventually die with regrets-
regrets not confessed.
I would return to my grave
and smile,
maybe laugh the manly laugh-
tormenting and know-all,
I would be their fall.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 1:04 AM UTC
How could I have forgotten
The way you kissed my forehead
Or the way you pressed your face
Into my collarbone
Or the way you twirled your finger
Around my necklace
The way I do
Every second
Of everyday
When I'm thinking
About you
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay I’m gay I'm gay
it kind of
spills off my tongue
when I don’t want it to
an
impulse
a
burning choke in my throat
falling out of me when I wish it would stay inside
when strangers are around
when
they really don’t need to know
it’s painted on my face
it’s written on the backs of my hands
my collarbone is burning white hot with a tell
and my eyes watering every secret of it
can they tell?
can everyone see right through me?
I’m
too scared to ask
somehow
also too scared to keep it inside
It wants out more than anything
but
she wants to be safe more than anything
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 1:34 AM UTC
I miss your kiss,
Your sweetest kiss,
Your deep kisses.
Your kiss that made from the heart. I miss it!
Every time you brush your lips into mine,
I feel like cloud nine.
I miss your kiss,
the way you move your mouth into my neck and bit my collarbone...
it really sends me shivers.
I miss your kiss,
Your passionate kiss that made me drown.
I miss your kiss,
The intensity of your kiss that made me dizzy.
I miss your lips,
the lips that I've always wanted to taste.
Your kiss...
Yes, your kiss is my heaven.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
I want your body pressed up against my heart .I want your hands spreading my thoughts ,lingering over the curves of my passions ,gripping my hopes stroking my oponions, and cupping my desires .I want your soul breathing heavily against my collarbone .I want your thoughts nibbling on my ears,your passions pressed against my lips ,your hopes naked on my skin ,your opinions hard under my hands and your desires letting out soft moans against my soul
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Thankful for his collar
At my collarbone
His body
My Temple
Not my weakness
But strength
Deriving pleasure
When I kneel
Before him
And I stand
At his command
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 7:20 AM UTC
It seems like the cells in the spine of my body ache for another to fit against it.
Perhaps not a mirror image or unflawed symmetry,
but
rather just a presence.
Something beyond the lilt of a shadow and shallow breaths.
My fingertips unconsciously linger & idle on the place on my collarbone. Left side, a kiss's width from my chin.
Notice, the word, 'place?' I felt a tad bigger of a human, a bigger piece of this starry starry universe with you.
Eyelashes still flutter, giving way to soft gravity. Hoping your eyes would be reflected against mine again.
I am so very human
with & without
you.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
Before sleep I knot a paper tag
to my big toe with baling twine.
Sometimes I think of stapling it -
ritual wants a clean edge.
She tolerates my oddities:
a posterboard of errands above the sink,
tea mug with its brown ring I refuse to clean,
I stand too close when the train arrives,
or climb ladders with one hand full.
Last summer a rogue wave flung me under;
I surfaced broken, collarbone split,
came home wrapped and aching.
She kissed the bruise and laughed,
as if I’d slipped the ocean’s grip,
as if the sea had lost its claim.
I call them accidents to sleep easier,
yet I flood the stove with gas,
strike a match, laugh at the plume,
convinced the fire means I’m alive
even as it scorches my hand.
At night she circles the bed,
tugging at my toe tag
as if it could bind me to her,
carrying me into the cabin,
a weight she won’t release.
Sep 20, 2025
Sep 20, 2025 at 1:44 PM UTC
I dreamt that I woke up to the sight of you.
Our legs were still intertwined,
Bare like the entirety of our bodies.
Squinty-eyed and morning breath.
I never cared,
The sight of you was a gift.
I swear you have an internal heater.
Either that or you’re a vacuum
Based on my collarbone covered in lust.
I woke up and you weren’t here. Again.
My doctor says I should be getting more sleep.
But, imagining you’re still here is
My worst nightmare.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 1:40 PM UTC
I love roller coasters.
I love the old rickety ones that jar my spine and push me into my little sister and i can feel our ribcages collide with the
click-click-click as they slowly build suspense and propel me towards the sun.
my last boyfriend hated them. He felt that his stomach couldn’t stand up to the drop of gravity so he ran at the sight of the climb up to reason and fled the line when i unbuckled my seatbelt.
i love waiting in line for a **** good thrill, and i count down the minutes until the spill of my scream echoes into the hairspray of the woman in front of me as she holds the hand of her cut-offs husband.
i guess you aren’t one to pine for the wooden tracks of thrill, either. but last night i lay in bed, on my side, trying to memorize the planes of your face, trying to calculate the angle of your nose as it leans slightly to your right, you tell me it’s crooked, i tell you it is lovely. it is the finest architecture this side of eiffel tower and you run your hands from the top of my collarbone, down the valley of my waist to the top of my hip, and you tell me you wish you had a tiny car to run along the line.
most of all i love the fall.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
11/9/2014
it’s not a question
of whether or not
but rather how
your crooked elbow
hangs over my collarbone
as you reach for your phone
lying procumbent on wherever
the circumstances have placed
us
whether it is a dorm bed or
a basement couch me sitting up in a cold
sweat
or the red of my sunburn on the white
sheets of my july bed
it’s never been a question of state
no matter where the state
until i’m sitting
staring at the empty space you left
next to me or
in my head.
it’s not a question of legitimacy
with the intimacy in your tethered
voice suggesting otherwise
but i can’t help but despise
wild intricacies of time.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 6:24 PM UTC
Standing like a model in a motel room-
jealous eyes can't open the blinds.
Every time, every time.
Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
These are beautiful songs for damaged people
that don't think they're all the same.
They taste like formaldehyde,
so hopefully they'll preserve me.
But, instead, they burn the room
as they kiss my neck and collarbone.
Lapdancing on my loneliness-
Please, let me remove my eyes and hands,
because I've seen and have felt too much.
You don't understand:
everything is ideation
and demisexuality.
Double entendre:
I'm a toxic lover,
I have girls around my waste.
Take a look around and see how damaged everyone is,
and how universal they are in their illusory disguise,
"How can we be so smart if the last line was redundant, guys?"
Je t'aime à la folie, broken frames.
This is just a mediocre song for damaged people,
so they believe they're not all the same.
Don't feel too much.
Remove introspection.
Be self-absorbed.
Feel no affection.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
There was sunshine coming off of her
Blues and cream dripping from her lips down the crease of her smile
Pooling in the corners of those cheeks
Neon and tangible
The warmth irradiating from the swirls of her fingers
Southern hues
Her intonations dancing between the half moons between her index and middle fingers
Her skin shines
Mississippi mud runs clear over the rivers that dance beneath her collarbone
You can hear it flutter with the clouds
Her heartbeat
It stills the fields she runs through
There was sunshine coming off of her
Whispering strawberry sweetness
Tingeing the souls we carry on our feet.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:39 AM UTC
Your body
All angles and edges in place of curves
Your neck
Cinnamon, turmeric and salt
Your skin
Wheat-dark like pages of a well-worn book
Your atlas back
Arched like a cello’s waist
Your elegant fingers
Graze the ivory shell of my ear
Your hollow collarbone
Perched like a sycamore branch
Crawling its way up
My pelvis
My sternum
My throat
Until finally hanahaki springs forth
From my welcoming lips.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 9:20 AM UTC
[i'm sorry. i'm not very good at love letters. i've confessed my love to more angels than real people, but please hear me out on this.]
to the girl i ran into yesterday, with love from the girl who ran into you yesterday
i'm pretty sure i'm in love with you.
you left a handprint on my heart (a literal one;
your fingers curved over my collarbone like you were afraid you would break me)
i have cigarette butts for nerve endings
and i'm pretty sure that you must be a lit match
because i haven't felt this alive in seventeen years
please tell me you feel the same way.
i just want to feel your heart beat against mine, and i know we've only just met, i know you will probably never come to this bookstore again,
but if you say no i will pretend that this is a letter to the galaxy
(my favorite constellation is the one stretching across your shoulders;
a thousand and one stars disguised as freckles
play connect the dots with ligaments and fissures)
i will pretend that you are not the sun in my solar system
and okay, maybe i'm being overdramatic but have you ever looked into someone's eyes
and wanted to memorize every fleck of gold you see
i wrote down the things i want to know about you, a wishlist ten miles long
with nothing but your name on it
i wonder how you'd react if i held your hand in public
the sea swelling up to meet us there are wires from my heart to yours
and i know there is approximately an 86.3% chance you will never see this love letter but i wished on a star for something real
and then i ran into you
(i'm sorry again. i hope you enjoy to **** a mockingbird. it's one of my favorites.)
i hope your hair is still a preposterous shade of blue because it makes your eyes look like constellations
do you want to form a galaxy with me?
to the girl i ran into yesterday, who wore bright pink flip flops and had a tattoo of a star on her left anklebone,
i think i'm in love with you
please reply at your earliest convenience.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
There once was a proper noun,
who started hanging with the wrong crowd.
With alluring adjectives who handed out compliments like candy
− gob smacking gossipers with an opinion on everything.
And with thrill-seeking adverbs,
who buddied up to the most dangerous of companions;
crash, dive, hurl, and gamble (to name a few).
Until the day the sentence came rambling into town,
planting punctuation in the form of kisses
on the noun’s eyelids, earlobes, and collarbone.
Provoking such admissions as, “My thighs stuck
to the black leather seats under the hot, cloudy skies
of that August afternoon, and my hair whipped
like willow branches in the wind,
when I rode on the back of his motorcycle.”
or, “He greets me every morning with a sun-drenched kiss”,
and, “The tulips were picked fresh from the ditch of
a curvy, country road, but now sit in a
vase by my bed, and are slowly wilting away.”
It would eventually be made clear
that the sentence had a nasty habit
of propositioning prepositions,
only to leave them hanging,
and to place things in parenthesis,
that simply did not belong.
And so, the sentence would wind up leaving town,
or “run-on”, as the noun liked to tell it.
Went chasing after some particularly provocative expletives,
eventually trailing off with a faint set of ellipsis...
And the kindest of adjectives
came cooing after the noun,
calling to her; lovely, lustrous, listless.
And the adverbs brought with them
their gentlest of friends; comfort and console,
to speak with the noun:
softly, tenderly, lovingly- all witnesses.
But it was of no use,
and the noun whispered quietly:
“I have been enchanted with a single kiss
which can never be undone,
until the destruction of language.”
*based off of the poem Permanently, by Kenneth Koch
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
in this
pocketful
of limbo
the distance rises
in curls of smoke
a prairie fire
siphoning into
crisp edge
of forest
Inside my
uncloaked ventricle
primeval forces
turn my blood into
dusted gold
as they pump
sacred texts
into my oxygen
They roll your quintessence
upon my fingers,
playing inside
my psyche's
wild ache
a spread of orifice
in spellbound mantra,
as I spit out
the
hairy thorns,
a holy purge of
internal
engravings
Somehow ---
like a miracle,
I grow ripe seedlings
from deep within
my womb
as I trip into
a universe rising
I take wisps
of your grace
as it brushes
the jut of my
astral collarbone
You are always
grounding me
like this,
my tongue
tripping
over velvet
stance of warrior
assuaged into silk
Without you,
I might be
whisked off into
the periphery
of chaos
but instead
I am simply
tied to
the urgency
of the little novas
about to
explode
While I wait
I tend to
the wildfires.
to make sure they
are still burning
I keep my honey
wet and fresh
upon your
lips,
let my pores
drip moonpools
into your glistening
wet of mouth
and only when
it is time
I let the whole of
me burst
into the
fire -wrapped
tips of
stars
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:56 AM UTC
*A Door's Rusty Hinges Screeched As It Is Opened,
Though The Outside Of This Hall Is Ugly,
Paint Chipping,
The Scars Of Screams Entwined In Eggshell Trim,
The Room Which Lays On The Other Side,
Is Full Of Beauty,
Is Full Of Tubes Of Paint,
Some Which Lay On The Floor,
Which Kisses Oak Furnishings,
Some Lay On An Abandon Easel,
Next To A Canvas,
Half Completed,
Created By Shaky Hands*
*Empty Vases Sit On A Window Pane,
Which Await,
For The Return Of Freshly Picked Wild Flowers,
Awaiting The Return,
Of The Soft Glow Of A Candle,
A Lanturn Perches On A Bookshelf,
Full Of Stained Pages And Ripped Covers,
The Stale Scent Of Memories Cling To Each Chapter,
A Small Handcrafted Stool,
Sits In This Ancient Home,
In The Artist's Heart*
*The Ancient Smell Of Paint,
Is No More,
Though The Stains Of Blues And Greens,
Are Now Grey As Clay Upon The Floor,
Yet Paintings Dwell On The Off-White Walls,
Some Brilliant,
Others A Hot Mess,
Self Portraits,
Redish Hair Cascading Like A Waterfall,
Down A Slim Collarbone,
Some Of Them The Women Smiles,
Others She Frowns,
Landscapes Of Rolling Hills,
And The Moonlight Leaking Through Coniffer Forests,
Are Stacked Ontop Of Eachother,
And A Mirror Which Stared At The Artist's Face,
And Who Saw Her Take Her Last Breath,
Climbs Motionlessly On The Wall*
*If You Looked Close Enough,
You Could See Perfectly Preserved Fingerprints,
On The Cracked Glass Of The Window,
As If She Were Longing To Be Free,
As If She Were A Prisoner,
In A Colorful Cell,
A Prisoner In Lockless Cage,
A Prisoner With Flushed Cheeks,
Yet A Face Still Pale,
One Who Longed To Express Herself,
To The Monarchy,
Imprisoned For Creativity,
She Lay In This Room,
Breathed This Air,
Painted These Pictures,
Yet Where Is She Now?*
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
Little one,
try not to be
so broken.
Save a shuddering
breath or two,
you've already spoken.
Little one,
emotions,
energy
is spent,
vent,
vent now little one,
cry on my collarbone.
Nerves and naves
may fail you
but I will never leave you alone.
I need red.
Give me purple,
fuchsia, and maroon.
All of the colors that sear your insides;
carnivals come too soon.
Little one,
let it out,
just
save me some.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
I miss your kiss,
Your sweetest kiss,
Your deep kisses.
Your kiss that made from the heart. I miss it!
Every time you brush your lips into mine,
I feel like cloud nine.
I miss your kiss,
the way you move your mouth into my neck and bit my collarbone...
it really sends me shivers.
I miss your kiss,
Your passionate kiss that made me drown.
I miss your kiss,
The intensity of your kiss that made me dizzy.
I miss your lips,
the lips that I've always wanted to taste.
Your kiss...
Yes, your kiss is my heaven
Aug 11, 2019
Aug 11, 2019 at 5:55 PM UTC