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Edgelessit was two in the afternoon
the afternoon sun sparked my room into orange light;
all our edges had blurred;
love, we had no edges at all.
i lay thinking of my summer;
[i smoked too many cigarettes, i didn't kiss you enough,
i broke a heart, i fixed two]
the summer ended a thousand times with every setting sun;
and every time the sun rose, it started again.
the final sun was setting on our summer;
when the afternoon sun sparked my room into orange light;
i thought of collarbones, tired eyes and forevers
and how i want all those edgeless things with you
the onsethe never stood still and it annoyed me that
his resting position was always halfway between a stretch and an unrelenting springing.
i figured the outward restlessness was a manifestation of an inward fear of being still
but he loved yoga and meditation.
he was a contradiction of himself in many ways,
the happiest sad face you'll ever see,
the distraction you can't help but focus on:
he has a lot of thoughts,
he doesn't speak fast enough for them,
then it all catches up with him
Vascillate(july nights are for)
thinking back to when:
i love you
replaced my damaged skin with the sound of the ocean;
replaced my tired eyes with butterflies wings;
replaced my chattering teeth with poetry;
replaced my shaking hands with pieces of the moon.
it was just that simple
(july nights are for)
i miss you
i love you
it was just that simple
(july nights are for)
vacillating futures, hazy promises;
to craft bigger futures and vaster promises for my hungry, destructive mind.
because it's just not simple anymore
(i love you)
july nights are for
turning off my phone when you call
and being alone when you need me the most.
untenable1. it's January-
i'm hearing his voice for the first time on a wednesday.
i'm the new girl at school,
standing awkwardly on the periphery of girls i barely know who were talking to him about late assignments or something.
i'm standing in a shaky, nervous way, waiting to be introduced or acknowledged.
he looked at me once, but i was looking at him the whole time.
i couldn't stop looking at him. later, he would tell me that he liked that about me.
but by the time he was telling me that, i had become too self conscious to meet his eyes as much as i used to.
7. it's July-
things are going wrong, i'm feeling worse more frequently.
we're swapping definitions of love over the phone,
he says: love is the person you always want to be with, no matter what.
i say: i don't think i know what love is.
things are going wrong.
we're talking about the countdown.
2. it's February-
we joke about how good we look together
we jokingly hold hands and take
Sleeplessi'm drowning in a puddle of little extremities
that attack in diminutive dramatic doses.
i'm losing friends,
i'm losing sleep;
a sweeping sunset swiftly burns a pale sky,
i'm melting in a freezer and freezing in the fire
and every feeling cancels out every other feeling.
i'm losing battles,
i'm losing clarity;
the stars burn out and give way to morning.
CataclysmI tend to think emblematic thoughts:
hectically, I think up intricate poems as things are happening,
willfully splitting myself into both bystander and perpetrator.
I do this every time my fingers skim his angular collarbones,
noting their vulnerability under my hurricane fingertips,
my tornadoes of attachment, my storm clouds of indecision, my incessant rain.
I could write about that forever.
He said to me: I think you are incredibly intelligent.
i realize that it's getting harder to write poems about you,
immortalizing you in words that can't even properly describe how much i hate this,
or how much i love you. I realize that
i can't decide which is stronger.
every day more than four million people fly on commercial airlines worldwide,
in over one hundred thousand planes.
reducing you to a part of this statistic doesn't lessen the pull i feel in my chest,
but at least i tried.
and what if, this time, it's not as easy as turning off my phone?
what if i can't just throw you away with everything you gave me?
what if i can't just distance myself from it until it's so small i can swallow it up?
what if i've finally found the pain i have to work through?
if i'm lucky- statistically, i will fall in love seven times before marriage.
you will always be the first.
you will always be the messiest, most confusing, most beautiful, most shocking
it's been roughly one hundred and eighty two days since we met
AsphyxiativeI know I'm difficult
too often I stop myself from asking:
would you hate me if I messed up really bad?
would you hate me if I had a new friend, just like how we were friends,
who was there for me when you couldn't be,
and kissed me on my black sofa?
would you hate me if it got too hard?
would you hate me if I stopped calling back, just like how I used to
when the line went dead too early
and I still needed to hear your voice?
would you hate me if the noise never stopped?
would you hate me if I couldn't even focus on being still and content, just like how I used to be
when we met and started talking
and you fell in love with me?
would you hate me if I ended this poem too soon?
would you hate me for running out of things to say and giving up, just like how I always do,
when you ask me what's wrong?
Arithmophobiawe had thirty six days left when you asked me why I don't talk about it,
it was nearing two in the morning when i told you.
i told you all the things i hate talking about,
i was speaking into the vacuous, suffocating, ambiguous dark
not knowing if you were crying on the other side of the phone,
or even there at all.
i spoke despite my voice denying me the power to sound powerful.
my voice shook and spluttered and stumbled over words,
i mumbled my words into the enormous void.
and, for a split second, i was starting to think that maybe, possibly, hopefully –
but as soon as the phone went dead, and the silence encroached
there was just more to say.
thirty five, thirty four;
there's more to say today, there will be more to say tomorrow
and there's only so much you can listen.
When you lose a best friendWhen we said friends forever and
crossed pinkies like grade-schoolers,
I could only believe those words
lodged in your heart
like they did mine
because every time I think back
I can't help but remember the
under star lit constellations,
and study sessions where we
learned more about each other
than we did Biology
but now it's clear
that each beat of your heart
has made those words fade,
and you could care less
about crossed pinkies
but I'll still see you,
and hear your voice
and I'll still wish
the meaning hadn't changed-
Forgiveness takes twoThe words are struggling
to tumble off my tongue,
and despite having
a fleshy cushion
to rest on,
they stain my teeth
and sting like acid
"I'm sorry," I stutter,
but the bitter taste
doesn't leave my tongue-
not because the words weren't true,
but because I know
I won't hear,
At peace within this tranquil garden,
I picture the moments where I've made you smile.
Those times are endlessly precious to me,
I think they're worth the while.
They're worth the time I've spent with you,
Even if it wasn't long.
I only wish I'd spent a little more,
Before our love was gone.
She's an artistShe's an artist.
Always seems to be daydreaming,
She draws to escape her pain.
Cause for a single moment,
When her work is done.
It seems like there is no more rain.
And she could finally touch the sun.
The one that shines so brightly in her paintings.
But then it's gone,
So she keeps drawing,
She's become good at escaping.
Running from reality.
Because dreams are the only things she wants,
Her imagination is the only thing she's ever known.
And it's sad really...
Because she tries so hard to be happy.
But the most beautiful thing she could ever create.
Was that smile upon her face,
And that is the one thing that remains blank.
Waiting to someday be something more than,
Mommy Is A Super HeroMommy Is A Super Hero
Standing before his class, he held his tiny report,
“Who is your super hero?” Was written in yellow chalk on the green board.
Exhaling his breath, the curly haired boy closed his little eyes,
“Don't be ashamed of yourself” His mother's words rung in his ears, “And don't ever cry.”
He began to read aloud, with a shaky voice.
to his class, he told his mother's story.
At age fifteen, she was a beauty queen,
the most beautiful girl in all of the world.
She flaunted her silky hair, bore her bare legs,
prided her breast. The boys treated her like she was a treasure chest.
They respected her rules, they “looked, but didn't touch”,
but there was one older man, who from her, wanted too much.
All alone he met her, he approached her in the alley,
and all his mother told him, was that this man had treated her badly.
But what the boy didn't know was that she was taken against her will,
and that two months later, she turned up ext
Still HereSuicide is a
Thought that frequently lurks
In my mind, wich
Lets it overcome the
Laughter and happiness
Here I still fight, however
Enduring this sad life
Reviving my hopes
Embracing the gift of life
cenotaph of stormsthe first thunderstorm
was triggered by a blunt pair
of scissors, sparking violently
against the lightning,
shaking in the wind.
the downpour pierced,
tattooed with no ink but
the dark bleakness
of an overcast morning,
infiltrating uniformed wrists.
hid behind the music block,
shaky raindrops rioting
fears, she fractured.
the second storm
wept a two year downpour
outline that dripped from wrist
to hip, sidelong silhouette glances
obscured by the rain.
stalictidal waves shuddered
frozen, until icy glass
fell in stained shards from
the stillness inside.
thinner, brittler, growing
in flurries of sleet and hail,
her outline was never filled,
though the floods threatened
the third thunderstorm
was a mist-ridden melancholia,
a dream for permanence
smeared in ink through
fueled by the hope
that just this once,
the rain would spark a
rebirth beneath the ground.
instead, a tsunami
washed away the ink
as tides so often do.
smotherher spine was dusk
and unmade nests,
but he tried to live there
he was neither nocturnal
nor a dawn-believer,
so he suffocated
in the birdhouse of her ribs.
between my vertebrae, you are (cemeterial)oh, these writers never speak; they
claw words out of bird carcasses,
poets pecking viscera like necropolitans.
they count their ribs to remind you
of a corpse or of a matchstick. dry bones
between fissured wrists & funeral pyres,
these have been dying days &
they're all mortuaries.
Sleepless part IIyou were a lot of sleepless nights in february,
because we took an anticlimactic walk in the onset of rain.
we didn't know how to speak to each other,
so we played tennis with frustrated little sighs.
you were the sleepless nights in march,
because i was writing about you, and i never used to write.
we sat down on my swing set,
we talked with raised voices between too-long pauses.
you were sleepless nights in april
when the messy kisses stopped being so volatile, so mercurial.
even when we stopped sighing and fighting,
i never slept quite the same as i used to.
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