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I am the seaInside I am blue and violent,
Just like your eyes, which saved me
From drowning - I was calm yet crashing,
Waves of apologies and sad smiles.
You hooked me through the heart,
You and your crystal clear blue
Keep me floundering, not sinking
To the quiet places in the deep.
The dark ocean of empty gestures
And bad decisions drags and pulls,
But I fight to the uncertain surface
For one breath, to call your name.
PorcelainLike porcelain, your skin was
Pure white and flawless.
You were perfection, and
I was mesmerised
As Glosoli sang
And I cupped your face
Into my imperfect hands.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
And your collarbones,
And the ambient lighting
That highlights you with shadows.
My hands flit across your chest,
Down to your hips,
Smooth and porcelain.
But hard too,
An unyielding shell under your skin,
Stopping anyone getting in.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I run my fingers through your fingers
And your smile stays cold,
Porcelain and far away.
Ambient lighting highlights the shadows,
Under your eyes but it hides
That blotchy after-crying skin.
Mesmerised I want to reach out
But I see the cracks around your smile,
So I don't.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
QuakeThey call it heartbreak,
But really it was more of a quake.
Cracks spread out from the epicenter,
to my neck and to my thighs,
And widened until
As little flakes I fell away.
A damaged ornament, slowly
I collapse in on myself, and
In vain I try to hold the shards.
And after the aftershocks
There are too many pieces.
I feel myself fall from my hands
Jagged onto the cold floor,
And as you walk towards me
You cut your feet.
OpenIn the night I still hear the sound of her voice,
Gentle, like the quiet rainfall.
My eyes threaten to join in.
I remember your face and your hidden hands,
And every beat of my heart
Smashing my chest like it was trying to get out.
My ribs still echo with it,
Like my chest is cracking open.
Three years and still my chest is cracking open.
The dawn is darker than when I played Apple.
Outside it sounds just the same,
I can taste the tears still.
Three years old, when I screamed out in the kitchen,
While you made another kind of scream,
That I could not hear but I feel it now.
I feel the echoes swirling around,
Like my head is breaking open.
Three years and still my head is breaking open.
Petrichor and PeaceI find comfort in the quiet after rain.
Drops on the tarmac, chaos
And then silence.
The absence of sound is a sound
And the smell is new beginnings.
Petrichor and peace.
In fall after the leaves drop,
Crispy, ochre noises, til
Rainpour makes a mess of them.
No noise now, their colours blend
Into the ground and they regrow,
In the petrichor and peace
I find comfort that after our storm,
of industrial debris and man-made leaves
Fall rain will hammer down until
We are only echoes, and then
Silence and fresh grass,
Petrichor, and peace.
CountdownOn these long nights I am scared of death.
The changed moon reminds me that I am closer
To the time when my love gets grey hairs,
To the widow one of my parents will become,
To the empty rooms of children gone.
I fear the slip and fall,
And the look on your face on January 14th.
Both the inevitable, slow decline
And the unexpected screech
Of metal hitting metal.
To stand once more in a resting place,
Life once loved, now lost, and knowing
There are more lines on your face this year,
More things that you have forgotten,
And more cells awaiting rebellion.
Spring blossoms are a countdown
To a time without your eyes,
And more black suits and wilting flowers.
On these long nights I am scared
That I will be the last one left.
Do You Know What It Is Like To Be Unmade?It is that four o'clock curse,
Hypa Professional Stainless Steel,
Years past and bathroom floors,
"Now to know it in my memory".
Forgotten comforts and a lullaby,
Now your careless utterance.
Three years empty,
"Burnt Away" romance and consequences.
Scratch the night quiet.
"Jagged vacance thick with ice."
The skin will sing and sting,
Hypochondriac burns, twice.
And every drop of soul,
Poured out with the maelstrom,
Of cigarette stale lungs
And Holocene erases memory,
Internal parades eternally.
No mind enough to fill this mould,
"Someway, baby, it's part of me, apart from me"
That kind of loveI want a storybook kind of love,
Witches curses and poisoned apples,
Something to struggle for,
Against the odds,
Saved just in the nick of time.
I want a fable to envelop me,
And your eyes deep blue as the sea.
I sink down into their abyss,
And then your kiss,
A true kind of love on my lips.
I want a forbidden secret.
Insecurity and unsurity,
A crescendo kind of love.
As we are in the moonlight.
I want a snowstorm kind of love.
A blizzard to end all things,
Hurricane winds ripping apart,
Like tape and glue.
I want a nuclear reaction.
Irradiate my heart and soul.
A sickness kind of love,
With skin and pain and screams,
And aloe vera you.
I want a wartime kind of love.
Worries and kisses and tears.
Romeo and Juliet,
On no mans land,
We will embrace and die in love.
I want a fairytale.
Doomed and meant to be,
Unlike these faces I see,
The endlesss searching,
Trying to find some kind of love.
Next to BestLike the window pane race.
As mercury in the chill,
Lower the racers fall,
Victory puddles on the sil.
And the frozen teardrops,
Still and second best,
They are not winners, yet
They shine just the same.
Let's glow as next to best,
Not too special, but
A shining medals worth
Close to ideal.
Crossing in our time,
Not gaudy guilded gold.
Pretty good is second best,
I should know.
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Stranger's funeralUnder the clouds
Under the rain
Staring at the coffin
At a stranger's funeral
We're all alone
Feeling the storm
But not the pain
For he's but a stranger
And the graves around us
Are just there
Keeping us company
During this empty moment
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
To the Boy Who Likes PoetryHe was a maze of metaphors
but she didn't mind
getting lost in him
raising a warrior never was an easy jobi.
when i was a child i would
sit on the porch in the rocking chair and watch
the sky fall and the ground flood -
safe on my wooden throne, i'd call out
amid the thunder that
it would never pull me to the sky, away from
the home i'd always known; when the storm
would cease i'd stand triumphant
over fallen soldiers, lying
like stained glass and shimmering, rippling --
when i was older
i stood in kitchen and watched you
bake, fingers drumming to the beat of a
war-drum you never could hear -
and you'd tell me stories of sleeping beauties
while i read about the knights
who risked their lives, got angry at the girl --
you taught me how to be
a lioness when you realized this girl would
never be a queen. i was made to rule, but not in
robes, made to claw my way
out instead of sit and watch the fight -
my throat ached to sing
a shout of victory, my skin itched to dance
in a triumphant haze as charcoal painted
the night alive --
and now when thunder shakes
the ground i count its be
MarksIt was the marks that reminded me,
Making it only six days
Til you had to be put back.
On the edge of my bed,
In your shirt and someone else's socks,
And cold hands.
There were too many hours,
And too many marks,
Like the marks on my skin.
No clean getaway, just
Dirty failed distance, marked
By blood and salt and six years.
Six years of blue tack,
Five pence per photograph deals,
Nights like this on the edge of my bed,
When you would hold my hand.
Teenage TaoismGiving birth is the closest I’d ever felt to dying.
Before that, my near death experiences had consisted only of my silent announcement of pregnancy—silent, being that my social media accounts were all deleted almost simultaneously and I never returned to school in the fall, saying without really saying that I had caught the malicious disease of “teenage pregnancy”. I’m sure the whisper spread in the hallways like the Bubonic Plague. That September, sitting at home on what would have been the first day of my senior year, I imagined friends I’d never talk to again saying “she was only seventeen, and so full of life!” at my absence in the cafeteria tables, as if they were attending my funeral instead of talking about me behind my back.
"Full of life," I had snorted then, folding a never ending stream of what had once been my own baby clothes. "Literally."
I walked around like a zombie for the months of my pregnancy, deciding t
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