Jan 02

Priority

I have spent too long
mending people who come to me
teary eyed
and raw knees.
They extend me bloody palms with
half moon slivers of iron embedded in the flesh.
Around their wrists are heavy salt soaked sleeves,
eyes bloodshot
and nose running.

My mother raised me
to care and to love
without hesitation,
and as much as I thank her for my heart,
I curse this heart
for collapsing with every tear
and for leaping at every "please".

I wore this heart out
until its rhythm was droned whole notes,
sluggish and heavy,
and ever so slightly off tempo.
My skin drained of color
and veins drained of blood
as I watched corpse upon corpse's cheeks
grow ruddy once more
only for them to walk off smiling.

I never wanted a thanks.
Nor did I get them.
And that was fine,
until I could feel my own body
begging for the life
Dec 25

Empty Hands

I.
You sit beside me in english.
I don't know when
or why we started talking,
but we did.
Something about you seemed,
untouchable,
like I could reach out to feel
your fluffy curls
and then you wouldn't be there,
that it would be fingers
grabbing hopelessly at mist.
And that's what I loved.

II.
We talk constantly.
The teacher hates it.
She threatens to separate us,
and I can see your face growing red
as she openly lectures us on the disrespect,
and yes I felt bad,
but it meant talking to you.

III.
I curl into your solid chest,
my spine pressed tightly
against wiry muscle.
I can feel your arms wrap around me.
This is the warmest
and the safest I've ever felt.
Is this love?

IV.
We talk less.
I made you a Christmas present.
You cram the paper
into your backpack,
shrug,
and walk away.
Dec 11

Petrichor

I never really liked cologne.
Perfumes are included.
Any strong scents really.
Maybe it was the allergies
or the fact that the allergies made it
so I couldn't breathe through my nose.
Maybe I was allergic to it all
and that's why my eyes watered
and I never liked how I choked on its clouds.

I like wafting scents.
Like my mother's fresh baked cookies,
or the lilacs at school.
Freshly mowed grass,
but I'm allergic to that too
and "scentless" shampoo.
They're not as overpowering,
and there's something more natural,
something more comfortable and familiar,
and I find myself getting back to those scents.

I've always loved the smell of rain.
The wet asphalt,
the crisp chlorophyll scents.
Petrichor.
I always liked that word.
It's why I liked the grey skies
and the looming clouds
because maybe the rain would come again
Dec 11

To Women

Women are a wonderfully fantastic force.
We know the feeling of fear in the night,
that familiar heart pound
and how drums cry out in our eardrums
when the street is dark
and our heels are high.
But that's why we travel in packs,
so the keys don't lace between our fingers
and we don't cut our knuckles on the teeth.

We bite our cheeks
and our tongues
and draw blood
as we stay calm and silent,
because it's the quiet that is dangerous
and the most ominous.

We scream when we feel the need,
voices molten and biting,
breath like acid
and words like knives.
It's a blend of sensations,
stabbing and pulling
and disgustingly cold
that it burns up
from the inside out,
we let the anger consume us if need be,
because we are the titans that roam the earth.

We are there for each other,
arms outstretched
and wide,
inviting,
Nov 16

By My Side

I feel the anger in my veins,
hot and furious,
I feel like I'm boiling alive.
I cry when I'm frustrated,
and now I can feel the dams cracking,
I want nothing more
than to yell and scream
but they told me to be silent
and soft.
I bit my tongue
until I tasted the molten iron
and swallowed it.

You rushed to me,
despite my protests,
and as much as I wish you didn't,
I am thankful.

You didn't have to climb down
from your lofted bed
and slip on your shoes.
You didn't have to follow me
as I stomped down the stairs.
You shuffled beside me
despite the bitter cold
and biting winds,
and reminded me that life is okay.

I felt my temperature drop just a bit,
the rapid boil dulling to a simmer,
and I slowed down my heartbeat
with every last apology.

I don't know what I did to deserve you,
you and your neverending patience,
Nov 14

Unrequited

I am selfish to love you.
Not because wanting you to be happy
is a bad thing
(in fact I want nothing more
than for you to smile),
but because I want your best moments
to be at my side
and with my being
in your memories.

I love you selfishly and hungrily
and I want nothing more
than to hold your hand
and to venture the world together.
I know you think the same,
but you don't look at me
as someone to love
and to hold
when the world turns in for the night,
rather,
I am just a friend
to lean on
and to cry with.

I'll take what I can get,
and that is fine.
I just wish
you'd look at me
like you look at him.
 
Nov 14

A Pen's Rebellion

I regret writing about you.
I regret immortalizing this facade.
I regret convincing people that this
picturesque description
and intxociating smile
and "good-intentioned kindness"
was ever truly behind your dark eyes.

I'm not quite sure you did care,
and that would be fine
if not for how you deceived me
and used me for my mind,
and kept taking until I had no purpose
only to leave me,
drained
and ready for the grave.

I'm not your disposable pen
that you carry at your hip like a gun
that you use until the ink runs out.
I'm not an object.
I am first and foremost,
a person,
and it would do you well to remember that.

I wish you were here to read this
and to wonder if this is about you,
because it is.
I wrote it in my chldish rage,
but this burning beneath my ribs
is too intense to ignore,
and it seems the only thing
Nov 11

Can't Help But Wonder

I.
Dingy brown piano,
grime coated,
and ivory keys worn.
Scratch marks litter the sharps,
and dust settles in every last crack.
It's plunky and slightly out of tune,
tucked away in the corner as if discarded,
but you sit down on its creaky bench
and I've never loved messy music more.

II.
Your lips stain mine,
like scribbles on scores
and scratch marks across pale skin,
it's like the footprints we left in fresh snow
and how you told me
you made the hour long trek to school
in that old trench coat
because you couldn't find a driver.
It tastes old and familiar,
just a little different,
and more bitter.

III.
The space between us is immeasurable.
The hot energy
and fiery brilliance
has since died down.
I feel your weight on this beat mattress beside me,
but you're absent-minded
as you run a thumb across my cheek

Nov 02

The Fine and Fleeting Art of the Catcall

Get in the car drunk,
or high,
pick your poison,
and slap your friend on the shoulder.
Laugh to yourself as the car lurches forward
and you feel your stomach contents churn.
You're too inebriated to drive,
and you feel like a husk,
but a little less poetic
and with far less grace.

Let your lazy eyes roam the dark sidewalks,
slick with rainfall
and littered with rotting leaves
and settle on a small figure,
chinese food in hand
and friend by her side.
Notice her tied back hair,
and the laughter like bells to your ears.

Roll down your window and lean,
clench your friend's shoulder
and beg to slow down.
Like a dog
letting its tongue roll from its mouth,
stick your head into the fresh night air.
Yell.
Scream.
Whistle.
Directly attack,
pounce on her.

Leave her in the puddles
and exhaust pipe fumes

Oct 22

Summer Isn't Just Summer

Summer isn't just summer.
Sure,
it's the cold lemonade,
and the foreheads beaded with sweat.
It's the breathlessness of running too hard,
of laughing too hard in the car,
and lyrics screamed
out the window and into the vast expanse
of the world.

Summer isn't just summer.
It's also
staying up too late,
sweating in bed
and staring at the ceiling.
It's the sleeping in too late
and staying up too early,
where even the sun peeks above the horizon line
to scold and to taunt.
It's the peeling red skin,
the aches and the burns,
sand ground into raw knees and palms,
and the taste of salt
dancing across your lips.

Summer is the sinking feeling of dread,
of counting down the days until-
it's the finite time and the finite feelings,
the ones we wish we could bottle up
and the ones we wish to forget,
the ones we take for granted.

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