"pillowcase" poems
i guess you only like girls who are broken
and want to be hurt, like your hands
around her neck, want
bruises and cuts
in the shape of a heart,
inhaling and choking on your affection
like she needs it to breathe
translucent skin stretched across
veins that pump nicotine and you
you, you, you, you, you
judgement clouded by hyper-dependent
infatuation and the need to heal her
hollowness, although you’ll only ever be
another teardrop on her pillowcase
while she hums herself to sleep
with midnight lies
“the loss of you would be the loss of my life”
and the saddest part
is that i almost let myself fall
back into becoming that
lifeless, empty girl
once more because i thought it might
make you love me again.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:31 PM UTC
Her hair was long
Down to that place where *** just barely meets back
The place his fingers linger
Every time she says goodbye
The place where two tiny dimples make up for the fact she never smiles
Long like the days he spends
Wondering if she's happy at home
wondering if she's just as good at pretending to be in love
As she is at pretending not to be
Like the time he spends waiting for a sign from her... or of her
Long like her absence in his bed
He hears her laughter in his head
He'd settle for hearing her name
Her hair was thick
Like the way his tongue feels after a midnight pack of camels
She says she doesn't smoke anymore
But she does
Because she says a naked man can't smoke alone
It looks funny
Thick like her thighs
And silky smooth when they graze his stomach
Like his great grandmother's accent
He doesn't understand her but finds comfort in the texture of the syllables
Her hair was strong
Like her conviction
Her determination to stay at home where she belongs
Though she longs to be with him
Strong like the coffee she brews
Because she's too rebellious to measure anything
Coffee grounds or consequences
Like his addiction
His compulsion to reign her in
To keep her in his bed
In his heart
In his head
Her hair is dark
Like her eyes
Black pools that reflect her black heart, rotten soul
Dark like the way she makes love with the lights off
Because then she can make him into anybody
Whoever it is that she wants that day
Dark like that space between waking and dreams
Where everything is mixed up and nothing like it seems
Where he reaches out to touch her and finds only hair
A few strands on his pillowcase to remind him she was there
He finds them everywhere
Last night he found one wrapped around his big toe
He freed himself but found it hard to let it go
She says she hates to wear a ponytail
Like she doesn't want her hair to look like a horse's rear end
And he's just a ******* for letting her go again
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
My eyelids seem
to be the strongest part of me.
When the rest of my body
falls
into the ocean
of blankets they
float open upon the white water
atop
the waves of sleep.
This is when you come back.
In this mattress I am a piece
of clay and I can still feel the deep indentations of where your fingers
wrapped themselves like Ivy around my hips.
Hips, that stuck out like white flags of surrender and
fell to the ground in a straight line.
I can still hear
you.
I am a broken record,
and your whispers are the only track that plays at this hour.
“You are fat”
“Look at how flat you are Emma, no boy will ever look at you.”
“You are ugly.”
These are the nights when I can
feel the spiderwebs your words wrapped around my ribs and
listen to the way my heart beats constricted
in its cage, your hand still clenched around it.
Can’t you see me bleeding?
Safety lies
beneath my eyelids but you pull them open
I can feel
your icy touch behind my eyes as I stare
coldly at the ceiling.
you demand to be heard.
Did you mean to put your words
in my pocket when you reached in to steal the sleep that was nestled there like crumpled dollar bills?
Do you realize that you stayed with me?
Can you take your stolen midnight hours back and place them on your pillowcase?
Will your eyelids close?
Or can you still hear my cries of protest as your soundtrack plays into the night?
I don't understand?
Did you think it wouldn't hurt me?
Or did you want to live forever,so you put your
fingerprints where you knew they wouldn't fade.
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 11:36 PM UTC
You know what I like; a fight.
Nice touch; and you love to bite.
We love the rush; you struggle
no match for my might.
Your tiny frame, twisted right.
Bending to my will.
Passion and skill,
screaming in pleasure-- you will.
Getting our fill, this little kink--
Heightens your delight.
Your body so petite, **** and tight.
squirmed your way to sweet surrender.
Gripping tight; it's now or never.
My weight pressed you to the bed,
Face down, pillowcase bracing your head.
Your *** up,
looking back at me,
just like I said.
My commands,
So stern -- you wet the bed.
Reaching down, I watched as your lips
Slowly they spread.
“command me!” is what they said.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 2:55 PM UTC
Chasing the high; need it to get by.
Hopes and Dreams just seem to pass, why?
Looking down on myself, like, look at this guy!
Smothering my face with the pillowcase’
Same **** different day, still trying to plan my escape.
In this unfair a rat race; come to find out; the cheese is laced.
Moving forward; being held in place, bright future. Such a disgrace.
What we get isn’t always a reflection of what we deserve,
Sometimes even karma gets thrown a curb.
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.
Perhaps I should be.
I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.
If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?
I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 4:48 PM UTC
Poem number two
Already, wow
Dog beds
Fog heads
What a rhyme
Let's get serious
I'm going through a heartbreak
Feel sad for me
Kkk
Swas
Pillowcase is a asks flun
Flun, flun I mean
Snake
Mu caliente magnifico!
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Memory is a beautiful thing.
Those warm summer mornings sitting on the front porch.
Jumping on Colton's trampoline in a frilled baby pink tu-tu.
Little white bows in my golden curls as I bounce,
grinning so wide,
in the rays of the Texas sun.
Trips to the lake in our old boat.
The water warm and glittering, calling me for a swim.
Tubing behind the Seaswirl with my baby brother,
giggling like little kids do.
My old cowgirl costume for Halloween.
Running from door to door with an old ragged filled pillowcase in hand.
Singing Hilary Duff in my 5th grade talent show.
Nervously shaking as I watch the smiling crowd in front of me.
My first crush sitting next to me in math class,
Mrs. Woo telling me to stop daydreaming.
Green eyes that stare back into mine, laughing, moving in front of me.
Adventures in Burbank with Megan.
Laughing so hard we fall to the sidewalk in front of a full Mexican restaurant.
My first boyfriend kissing me under an oak tree,
in McCambridge Park at sunset.
Here I sit now.
At my washed out desk in a new dorm,
in college.
My life will keep moving on,
and I have all these beautiful memories to fill it with.
My own personal home videos to dance through my head,
as I think,
as I dream,
as I film more to think back on in ten years.
Life is too beautiful to waste.
I thank God that I have been so blessed to be living.
Loving, laughing, singing, dancing, smiling
and holding on to this free spirit that possesses me and moves me.
Someday life will be but a wonderful memory.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
3 AM and the famed
“World’s Best Coffee”
Isn’t doing the trick.
Dawn at diners
Is where the lonely
Gather for company
‘Cause we’re tired of
Laying alone on a bed
Too big for one
Too small for our thoughts
Too much of a reminder.
[Your imprint still fresh,
An outline to the right side of my pillowcase,
And some nights,
When I’m consumed by thoughts of you,
I’ll crawl into the depression,
And let the space engulf me,
Until I remember that,
Just ‘cause you laid on the right side,
Didn’t mean you were always right,
And a strange metaphorical hope
Bubbles out of me,
When I remember that
Hearts tilt to the left,
But, when you left,
It was quite heartless.]
We prefer indistinct strangers
Who we secretly hope
Have stranger problems
That maybe they’ll share
To make ours seem more bearable
But, more often than not,
We sit in a shared silence
Fatigued, insomniac, alone together,
The (lonely) only chatter with the night shift waitress.
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 6:09 PM UTC
Think of how much world is wasted on
bad eyes - by blindness, or ones that merely do not want to see.
The next thing you know you cannot miss a sunrise
and french kiss both moon and stars
goodnight, your head will hug its fallen hair on the pillowcase,
strands telling stories of when you were not conscious. I
realize you will visit jewelry stores and
watch how gemstones are faceted. You will imagine the galaxy
within an amethyst, publish novels on their bouquets
of cigarettes, worry about how pretty things can **** themselves too.
Everything is a story: you ask to see my cellulite,
you tell me how it got there, how my skin stretched to make
room for every place we shall go
including statelines that do something similar. We stretch apart
and still we are okay. We think about how the same
dawn reaches us, I can almost see your pupils dilate when the sky
dances - I watch but you hope to learn the ballet.
Someone is taking a photograph right now that they can look
at later, ours never came out the way I wanted them to
or perhaps the memories just go by another name.
I learned about homophones when I hurt you
by trying to sound beautiful. It is so much easier when we can see
morning peeling open our feelings, easier when you're here.
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
It's a technological age
& Baby,
you've got my number,
I love you close-up.
live to see your sweet flow,
'cause I know Honey,
you've been
thinking about me.
Did you get new drapes &
an amber pillowcase Sweetheart?
They're pretty nice!
I just wanted to tell you,
they match your
gorgeous hair
perfectly &
when you
hold yourself up
like that,
well...let's just say
it makes me want
to shout out
a few kinky-things
I'd like to do with you.
If you only knew,
oh, if you only knew,
wink wink.
And when
your sparkling-eyes
meet mine,
it gets me going,
but it's really
your spread
feminine-thighs
that keeps me honest.
No lies, I'm yours to keep,
you can have me forever,
I promise.
O Doll Face,
your lacy lingerie,
so stunning,
so very ****
& amazingly sensual,
especially
the crotchless ones,
what scrumptious
sexy-fun,
yum, yum!
O Darling,
my Sweet Sugar Pie,
you're the greatest,
& oh how I love you,
you & your selfies,
so discreetly,
they move me.
no lie!
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC
1. Grumble
Of pugs. Or old men. Correlates to the grouping
of wrinkles: smile lines (down) whiskers (up). Synonymous to a gaggle of geese. Or women.
A grumbleman steps on the Pug's tail
and a passing girl hears
a crack, yelp, **** She turns to help
but the grumbleman is gone and the pug
with him. She wonders why her neighbor's car
is still at her Mom's house? Why her Mom
wants to be called Veronica not Mary. One night she dreamed Veronica dancing on their roof
in the rain holding tight to an old red picture whispering to a woman on the lawn dancing
dry in white. She tried to call out to Veronica
she saw her slipping, but when she touched her lips
She felt them sewn shut with coarse, wet thread. Veronica turned and flew to her, to the window, grabbing her hands forcing fingers to feel
the brail graven into her Mother's giggling teeth that read, Don't look, your father will be bleeding soon. She awoke and her window was bound
in greased black leather. The floor ashen. Her lips still sewn
shut.
Anne stood,
picked out her fathers bones
Veronica had sewn into her
pillowcase
and
she
danced.
Jun 19, 2013
Jun 19, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
You were sap on my fingertips.
Amusing,
but tiresome.
I always did like sticky situations.
One must keep things interesting,
you know.
Our romance was
utterly cliché;
with the class
of the ****
you used to make.
Circa 1975.
Your capricious nature
was infectious.
And lucky for you,
the ****** had already
eradicated any morsel
of logic or reason
that should have been in attendance.
I was ripe for the picking.
With unfaltering,
unwavering decadence
you won
a child's heart,
but not without
stealing the body too.
Heartless ******* people everywhere.
Shoving young girls
flat on their taut tummkes
for better access
on beds, ***** mattresses and floors
everywhere.
I can still recall
the scent of your pillowcase
as your hand pressed,
hard,
my head to the center of the bed.
I'm sure you remember,
you know,
the way my heroin-soaked body
flopped,
nearly lifeless,
as you took
and took
and took
what you saw to be yours.
I hope I haunt
some frequented
highway of your psyche.
Walking the wet roads,
thumb extended at my side.
You know me
by the switch of my hips,
the curve of my ***
and the smell
of naive innocence.
I feel you behind me;
I always feel you behind me.
"Need a ride, kitten?"
Glorious evil pulses through me.
You're a sucker.
You'd pick me up everytime.
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 12:27 PM UTC
My skin is seeping salty feelings, and cooking warm under the pressure of anxiety.
I just typed a series of monologues to your inbox again, but you don't seem to hear them.
It's 3:46 AM. I'm almost delirious. What is sleep? I spend about 14 hours in bed everyday.
I usually get 1-2 hours of sleep.
My tears have stained my pillowcase. Like, I don't turn the light on anymore because I see the stains.
In my room, it is very cold. I guess it's cold like me. Or is it really, just cold like you?
I'm lost and alone, and I'm afraid you'll never come back.
I need you back.
What did you not understand?
When I told you when we were still together, that I'd love you until the day I died?
When I told you after you forcefully dumped me, I'd have this problem until the day I died?
Because the day I die, in my last moments, I will finally be able to decide to give up on you.
At times, I've wanted to commit suicide.
Because if I'm not waiting for you,
I'm waiting until the day I die.
Oh look, another monologue.
Don't read this one.
Go hang with your girlfriend instead.
You already decided that's whats best for your health.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
Your pillowcase
Is still in my closet,
Remember when you
Let me borrow it?
My fever sweat
Soaked through mine
And you were kind
Enough to let
Me use yours
So I could be comfy,
You constantly
Took care of me,
A monthly ordeal,
Ordering meals
Every night,
Every morning
The white hot light
Of mourning
Keeping me
Yawning
In my bed,
I didn't leave
For days,
Where could I go?
So confused and dazed
Watching Dazed and Confused
On infinite play
On the tube
With no attention paid,
Cuz its your favorite movie,
It got me lost
In thoughts of
Going to the premiere
At the cinema
Near
The mall where
You used to rack shirts,
They're both gone now,
Replaced with a Hertz,
Some condos
Of minimal worth,
And a David's bridal
Full of gowns
I'll never see you wear,
Cuz you disappeared
Into a habit,
A rabbit hole
Smeared
With ancient demons
That appeared resolved,
But in fact
Were the reasons
Your love dissolved,
As well as the ambition
To solve
Life's questions,
Your mission
Became
Obsessive
Injections,
Oh, my
Jesse,
I wish I
Still had
Your affection,
But the reaper
Has added
You to his
Collection
Already,
So I guess
I'll hold
Steady,
And maybe
He'll
Take me
Soon,
Cuz I'm
*******
Ready
To sail
To the
Moon.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
Sit
and place your hands somewhere you cannot reach.
Breathe
just like each day you've lived and breathed before.
Feel
the tension building up within your spine.
Try
to fill your shaking hands with something new.
Fail
to keep your brittle, breaking will in check.
Run
your fingers through the graveyard on your head.
Fight
the urge that wants to pull you to the edge.
Lose
yourself in treacle truths and bitter tastes.
One.
You find that bare and balding patch of skin.
Ten.
Each pluck removes a tiny piece of sin.
Thirty.
The pain reminds your mind that you're alive.
Forty.
The shame reminds your heart you want to die.
Fifty.
Demonic hungers spur your fingers more.
Sixty.
And hair by hair you carpet wooden floors.
Eighty.
You picture faces of the ones you love.
Ninety.
Your innocence lives like a dying dove.
Hairs
in hundreds lie around your pillowcase,
around, not on, your sore and bleeding scalp.
Each time you vow to never pick again,
but Trich plays tricks and makes you take his help.
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC
You are forbidden from returning to my dreams. Taunting me, provoking me, torturing my subconscious mind with your narcissistic sadism. I'm no longer your ********* I'm no longer your tattered rag doll with frays at the knees and threading that refuses to hold. No longer will you find a thrill in viewing the black and blue-toned soft spots about my body, find pleasure in the fact that you created them. No longer will your fist adorn my neck and the blood you drew decorate my limbs like threats scrawled in crimson ink. I no longer live in the cage you forged specially for me to occupy. I'll never again ***** lies that have been ever so carefully ingrained into the crevices of gray matter within my battered skull. No more contracts written in blood and marrow, surrendering the black pulp of a soul that may not even exist within me. I'm now my own. I no longer retreat from battle, I storm the walls that you constructed around my heart. I am truly loved and the scars that once reminded me of terror and cowering in corners are now covered up with the finger paint that is left behind every time her hands dance across my flesh. You never won. I have reigned victorious and you'll know it when you look inside your pillowcase for that last slice of my consciousness you refused let go of. You'll know it because it will no longer be there. It's back with me, where it always belonged.
Rebecca Madeira (C)
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 9:27 PM UTC
Liz Taylor once said:
"Pour yourself a drink,
put on some lipstick and
pull yourself together."
I stopped believing in the positive power of alcohol
when I saw the struggle in my
70 year old great uncles bloodshot eyes
the time I caught him at 2 am
reaching for the whiskey in the top shelf of the cabinet
I apply lipstick every day
all crimson scarlet blood pooling on my breath
all dripping cherry popsicle
all lip stains on your neck and pillowcase
all red on red on red
I can't ever seem able to pull myself back together
Like stitches coming undone on a wound
Like egg shells cracking on hardwood floor
I stopped trying after 3 years of puzzle pieces
These days I make sure I never fall together so I never fall apart
May 1, 2014
May 1, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
Late August mornings
The air is getting cold
Wake up, and pull me closer
The sun is rising slow
Slow, like a butterfly, when it lands on a blade of grass
Slow, like my eyes that open, once and then blink twice
There's no need to go faster, there's no need to rush
These late August mornings, lay still and enjoy life
Lay still and take it in; you're breathing, you're alive
Late August mornings
Feel lazy the whole day
Everything I planned to do
I might not do today
Today, life is perfect, no worries, no regrets
Today I plan to stay asleep and dream away the stress
I dream of pretty butterflies, of wind and scattered petals
These late August mornings, I get to feel alive
Sit there, and imagine, you're perfect, so is life
Late August mornings
Rays coming from the sun
Peeking through my window
Trying to wake me up
Wake me up from the perfect dreams inside my head
Wake me up so that I'll feel safe and sound again
Calm, and very happy, quiet all around
Outside I hear the crickets chirping, birds singing their sound
That moment is the reason I love this late summer month
Late August mornings
Coffee, rumpled sheets
Across the room, a pillowcase
Has landed by your feet
Feet that walked a hundred, a thousand million miles
Feet that carried you through everything you did in life
Nobody else will ever understand who you are, what you do
Nobody else will ever get what you had to go through
You stand there, please understand, you're who you need to be
Late August mornings
The breeze plays with my hair
The open window lets in light
With you, its cozy here
The way you said good morning, smiled and kissed my brow
The way you held me in your arms, I want to feel them now
Loved me unconditionally, but beauty has an end
I'm alone now, you're gone, I just have a head full of memories left
I wish you stayed for longer, but time came for you to go
Late August mornings
Like time came to a stop
I lay alone and think about
Nothing and everything
Everything I said, everything I didn't do
Nothing comes to mind of what I loved more than I, you
Not long ago, life was completely different
Changes will come and go, and you were one of them
You're gone now, and I miss you, a smile ghosts my lips
Late August mornings
It's time for me to go
Wish I could stay for longer
Sun came up long ago
Long time until I'll be able to do this all again
Long time until I'll be able to move on from this mess
But until next summer comes, I'll be here all alone
Until I close my eyes, and imagine you were never gone
Reality comes crashing, to imagine is a dream
Late August mornings
My bed is undisturbed
The sheets are straightened out
The floor has lost the pillowcase
The coffee cup is in the sink, the windows opened wide
The sun is up, the open blinds are letting in the light
Instead of lounging on the bed you can find me on the couch
Staring out the window, in my hands a cup of tea
Late August mornings...
They feel different without you; you are all I'd ever need
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 2:12 PM UTC
this is my impossibility:
that I may still smell you
from the crevice of my curve
while the moon laughs at my folly
that I may still catch your laugh
through cracks in the pavement
this is the love of a patient
who knows not his disease
only the teething
this
is the difficulty
of breathing alone.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
The way water pellets run down
your tan firm body
like light nimble fingers
caressing your edged jawline
makes me wish those fingers
were mine.
The way the sun reflects off of
your white brilliant smile
like many bright little stars
inside your lips
makes me wish your light could shine
into me.
The way you walk towards me right now
your muscles tensed and eyes locked
like an animal going in for the prey
makes my heart race and skip beats
a little kid on a sugar high.
Which I am.
Looking at you is like feasting on
Halloween candy
eating the entire pillowcase-full in one night.
Gazing at you is like going back for
seconds
thirds
fourths
on dessert
and not feeling the least bit guilty.
You are my secret stash of
eye candy.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC
to write a poem without haste
to sew your name into my pillowcase
foolish girls should walk home alone
sleeping in beds too clean to call their own
i’d swoon and dance on the curb where you wait
your head between my wrists, i’ve loved you for days
neon signs paint us purple as we make ****** bets
your words too shallow to pay off your debts
denim waistlines straddling a sad boy in the day
black lace on the floor arranged for the love we made
fall asleep in the passengers seat until noon
never eager to leave me, always leaving too soon
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
Sometimes on particularly rainy days
I’ll find myself face down on a paper.
I’ll finger paint it will tear soaked pads
And I’ll brush a mosaic on my pillowcase
Letting
It
Sink
In
I’ll mail the blank page to your doorstep
And sleep comfortably in a sea of hasty brush strokes
Maybe this won’t change your life
But our secret will be kept safe.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC