Less than scientific, we are animals. Loud and quiet all the same. Beggars, leaders, losers, travellers and still life bleeds. Break bones, break hearts, the theory that what we can’t see, can’t be real, heart bruises are mental alchemy. Turn muscle tissue into pig flesh and investigate the results. Our lives are more than casted understudies. Not in means of purpose, heaven knows, but for possibility. Skipping breakfast to make love. Skipping breakfast to throw your life on paper. Simple calculations made into a lifetime of incorrect answers. This is not sandy floors and raining flowers, reality is easy. Less than lucid dreams, makeshift ideas, place yourself in an uncomfortable location and watch the new things that come out of your mind-space. Two miles of singing for the sake of it. Drinking a whole bottle of whiskey, slices of pizza and birthday cake, years add on and your body is failing. It’s about possibility. Keep writing and you’ll see what you need. Water keeps you alive, but lust is satisfaction. Where do your hands belong? Where they can’t leave me.
like summer lakes
and falling headfirst
in love, in each other’s smiles and
bodies are meant to overlap
fill spaces with blueberries
and dry oceans off your legs
dry the counters at noon
and promise to leave better things
and let it go, invariables
because nothing is perfect
but at least be honest.
the endings of leather bound books: I will leave
and so easily, will be forgotten if ever remembered,
and still I think about 6th grade libraries and touching books
with wild eyes instead of ‘ouch’ this boy just broke my heart
and called me pretty. this boy with blond hair and cryptic eyes
that I used to think were crystals and O was the collector,
every gift-shop down highway 1, a new set of stones
in a velvet pouch, and this boy touched my hand when I was 12
and make me feel black holes. this boy who loved to sail,
and never noticed my feelings but smiled so often that I’d count
the number of times he’d say hello, and while I was only
small and not-knowing, this boy touched my heart
and I left in a 26’ u-haul in the summer of ‘06,
looked back six times and forgot his name.
the start is always a finish line
and I’d rather be in last place.
Thanks so much! I’ve only been writing regularly for about 2 years and sometimes I stop and sometimes I feel the need to write for hours and I’m still not satisfied. I usually write daily, sometimes several times a day (usually more when something is bothering me). I mostly post poetry here and some short prose, but I also write longer pieces just for fun but I’ve never really shared them with anyone.
what I found in old moving boxes:
mother’s hope to her daughter,
that time she taught me how to cry
and how each tear was a lesson,
why they should never be wasted, they belonged to me, my eyes.
earth’s water is 97% salty, and my sadness was an ocean.
and a letter that said, I love you
but was crossed out in red ink.
when cherry blossoms start to bloom on your cheeks,
I know spring has come
and I swear perennials bud from your mouth,
sun-kissing, wishful, summer springing,
like dancing with honest hands,
and feeling with fingers
like wind chimes, love, love, and fire.
how much I wanted
to douse myself
in gasoline and use your
love as a match
so I could set
myself on fire
to make myself
once again.” —#7, burning proposition (via diasporicdecay)
from a country of bruises,
the news is always a closed window
when bones break, only perspective is important
mourning is an endless night
and mothers and fathers become casualties,
it’s easy to sink with anchors around your ankles,
let heavy eyelids close with ripe dreams —
the first time i found what heartbreak means
i left it on the sidewalk near the gas station
and learned that time does not heal
it just buries you under new grief,
a pile of broken things where
only the tip of the mountain is visible.
i wish ideas were flowers so that i could pick them
and know they are real,
but still i’d be a murderer.
my thoughts have died a thousand times,
and i left their ashes in beautiful places,
to say sorry.
and love doesn’t die, it becomes caged
do not ask me to explain this,
i found it in a dream and
i’m still trying to understand it.
re: the fear of intimacy
Our blood is boiling in 40° heat
at the heart of the city of rain,
pretending that it is possible to escape
the commas between us are like silver linings,
to know there is space but we are still close —
Sometimes, I can’t stop my hands from pushing away,
grey clouds of “this is where the earth ends”
and suddenly we’re falling and I still can’t hold your hand.