"rhapsodies" poems - Hello Poetry

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood under his fingernails and lets you save him. There is a place where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown: stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight.

0

Sep 26, 2013

Sep 26, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC

cz

Why You Aren't Going to **** Yourself Tonight

You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because, in one of the spun sugar fragile sequences of the events in your life, it works out. There is a place, somewhere amidst star stuff and cosmic collisions, where you are not the problem daughter or the biggest disappointment or the most regretted kiss. There is a place where you sink into a desk in your eight a.m. class and a boy with bags under his eyes and a hole-y sweater pulled over his knuckles says, "hi." There is a place where your father comes back from the war with sand grit in his eyes, blood under his fingernails and lets you save him. There is a place where you live in India, where you aren't afraid to love, where everything hurts less, where you stopped punishing yourself for the faults of your parents. You are a girl. Not a dart board or a guilty verdict or the final, desperate ****** of a sword through someone's chest. You are made of the same stuff as Marie Antoinette and Catherine the Great and Elizabeth, and you can command the winds too. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because no one ever asked you about the scars on your thighs but that doesn't make them nonexistent or unimportant. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you've grown: stronger in some ways and weaker in others, but you are still a result of rhapsodies in violet and trees bowed to the sea and soldiers with wind burn on their cheeks. Tonight, you are going to wrap your own arms around your own chest and breathe, swaying silently to no music. You are going to memorize the sound of silence, and you are going to listen hard for the even, jagged, pitter patter of your heart. You are going to thank your body for waging war against itself, you are going to apologize to your head for bruising your heart. You are going to feel the roughness of the floor and the vastness of the entire world and all of the eventualities spread before you. You are going to remember that this is only one, that atoms and molecules are flighty, whimsical, prone to selfishness and longing for the promise of stability. You are going to press your lips to your own wrists and know, as surely as Anne Boleyn knew when she walked to the guillotine, that no one can save you but yourself. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight because you are not an accident of the multiverse. You are purposeful and beautiful and young and reckless with your feelings, but you are not a mistake. Listen to the trembling of your heartbeat and breathe. You aren't going to **** yourself tonight.