#deadpoetsnet

And, though I was a soul in pain,

My pain I could not feel.

Oscar Wilde, The Ballad of Reading Gaol.

define: ache

the bruising in your bones, the quiet pain you hold so close to your heart,

the fragility of movement and the gentle way it tears you apart.

- short answer #1 | (e.l.)

I’m always kissing you like it’s the last time / Always hesitating, stuttering, stumbling over my words / Trying to make the moment perfect / Thinking this time it has to be perfect / Because the thought of anything less is unbearable / How do I reconcile myself to the fact that I will never have this back / This moment where the light is hitting your face just right / Where your eyes are squeezed shut and I want to hold you for just a minute longer / Stay a little while / Stay just long enough to feel like I have made the most of this precious time / I have to know that I’ve loved you right / That I’ve tried / That I’ve been stubborn and unwilling to settle for lukewarm / That I felt the weight of our lives and tried to carry them anyway / Kept the heaviest memories in my pockets like stones / Promised myself to skip them over the water later / There has to be space for more 

nowadays, i dream of warmth. of fingertips against skin, arms around a waist, of a mouth against a neck.

i dream of entwined hands. of feet pressed together, of leaning against a shoulder, of hair sticking to cheeks.

nowadays, i feel like a dream. insubstantial. like if you tried to place a hand on my heart, you’d fall right through.

it’s getting colder and i can’t tell when i’ll wake. i smell smoke but i can’t feel a thing. if i try hard enough, i can remember what it felt like, to carry more than embers in my fists.

tell me we’ll never get used to it / that we never take our entwined hands for granted again / that we’re grateful for every embrace / every meeting that isn’t through a phone screen / that we dance for hours the first time we can dance with each other / cry when we can blow out candles on a cake together / hold each other’s faces and say i’m glad you exist / i’m glad i met you in this life / i’m glad i got to live through the good the bad the ugly with you / i hope we never stop being amazed by all this love / how despite everything, it survived

he calls her komorebi; sunlight falling through the trees. he kisses you and the word seems to get stuck between your teeth. 

you stuttering poet girl, nothing but a mouthful of other people’s stories. you, with your stained hands and bleeding heart. you, graceless and tripping over your own feet, trying to keep up with the music, with him. you foolish girl, hoping that you’re worth more than a verse. you, perpetually messy, all your love spilling out of your arms and onto the floor. you, damaged but never delicate. only filled with light when it falls through the cracks in your armor, only golden for a moment. 

you who will never be as perfect as the light falling through the trees, but sometimes you pretend, close your eyes and let yourself float down with the leaves.

i’m sitting on the kitchen counter listening to that song i reminded you of. i feel seen, and for once i am not scared, i am euphoric.

i feel beautiful in all my messy glory; so incredibly loved, flaws and all. my hair slipping out of my bun and my favorite t-shirt off my shoulder, and now i’m dancing by myself to this song. i’m smiling for the first time in days, jumping over cracks in the tiles and hitting all the right notes. 

i’m aware that we romanticize tragedy far more than we should, that the sad poems are often the most popular, but i want to remember this. capture this mundane moment in these lines. if the future is dark, i’m taking all the light i have with me, keeping it my pockets and diving headfirst. jump with me.

you say, “the world is ending,” and i laugh and say, “when is it not?”

there’s still flowers blooming and people singing and your fingers resting on the small of my back. that pink dress you like, my legs pressed against yours, your smile against mine. you said you’ll love me till the end and i’m watching you prove it. we’re dancing in the ashes, leaving our hurt behind with the footprints.

you spin me around and i watch our memories on your walls. if we disappear tonight, i want us to be remembered for how fiercely we loved, how stupidly optimistic we stood in the face of the apocalypse, how we kissed through the darkness and held on till dawn.

i want the silver linings, something beautiful salvaged from this wreckage. tell them the world got ugly but we didn’t let it touch us. that we refused to take our rose-colored glasses off.

tell them it wasn’t all bad. that we held something lovely in the palms of our hands, and it wasn’t heavy. not at all.

i haven’t written in a while because all the words lead back to you, all these unfinished poems lined up outside my window banging against the glass screaming, “do you remember?”

i do

i do

i do

but writing about us feels like the time somebody tried to put a camera between us when we slow-danced, as if that moment of intimacy was meant for public consumption.

this is private.

my heartbreak is mine alone. i’m tired of offering up pieces of myself, waiting for someone to see something they can understand. something they can carry gently and take home and keep.

i understand if this is hard to swallow. if it leaves a bad taste on your tongue. i have burn marks on my fingertips from trying to rescue it. there is nothing pretty left here and i don’t think i can be it. i tried to be your beautiful girl, tried to be your favorite memory but, all i can remember is the broken way i asked you if you ever loved me and how you said, “of course”.

as if that fixed everything.

and i’m sorry, okay, i’m sorry that this was not the narrative you wanted. i tried to make it pretty, i promise. i cleaned up the blood and bile and hurt. i kissed you instead of telling you i was losing my mind, because you didn’t have space for another mess.

but i don’t think i have it in me to clear my insides off the floor.

you can take your knife and go.

There is a boy looking at you, holding your face with his artist’s hands, and you want so badly to take your own and crush his heart between them because the way he just leaves it out in the open makes you more angry than it should. 

You’re angry because he has the audacity to wear his hurt without shame, when you carry the stink of it on your skin. When anyone else who smells it on you looks at you like you’re damaged. Like whatever is left is evidence of ruin. 

You want to tell him that you’re hollow and that you ran out of the words he fell in love with a long time ago. You stand in front of this beautiful boy and can hardly breathe through your envy because he has the words needed to leave his pain outside, and all you have is your rage. 

When he calls you beautiful, it feels like a joke. 

And maybe you want to destroy any traces of hope because why should this boy, who holds his pain in his eyes like he isn’t afraid of how you might use it against him, have any? Why should he not learn the lesson they forced down your throat? 

But he’s reaching out for you with those gentle hands and you find yourself holding them, anchoring him, and he says, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”, and your anger goes cold and you feel absolutely nothing, all iced out and empty.

That’s what you tell yourself anyway, but some part of you wonders what it must feel like, 

to reach out and be offered kindness.

today, you shimmy on the train while people shoot you looks from behind their magazines / you sway from side to side in your old shoes / accept that maybe you’re not okay but you will be soon / realize that you are not ashamed to feel so much / that you’re ready to let emotions flow out your cupped hands and paint the floor / leave a dripping, surreal mess / you want to lie down and make angels in it / you want to color this town with all the shades you have / spill outside the lines / forget about picture-perfect / everybody lives like they’re being watched anyway / and you’re tired of rehearsing for the show / you want to let yourself feel everything / with intensity that leaves you unsteady / but still laughing through it all

sometimes, love feels like a bloodletting.

sometimes a slow murder, like take everything until i have nothing left, take my breath away, make me beg for it and forget to give it back.

sometimes a quick slash of the throat. like go for the jugular. tear it out with your teeth as you go in for a kiss. make it feel like an act of intimacy. bring me to my knees. make a mess and walk away from it.

like make your victim walk in voluntarily, accept the blindfold and cross their arms behind their back. let them feel butterfly kisses on the nape of their neck as you lean in to tie the rope. watch the sacrifice lie on the altar like it’s a bed of roses. watch them reach to feel petals but come away with scarred fingers instead.

like here take my heart and promise not to crush it.

like let’s play russian roulette and pray i can catch more than lies between my teeth.

like dig my grave and still give me hope that you won’t be the one to push me into it.

you once told me i appeared in your dreams amongst the most important people in your life.

i asked you what i said and you said, “nothing.”

i was more disappointed than i should have been, but i guess it made sense.

there were so many moments when you were curled up in my arms when i almost dared to tell you about my dreams. about how my churning thoughts left me feeling sea-sick and i tried to look for you to find stable ground, but you were too busy admiring the waves.

you said i was fascinating. beautiful. even when i cried.

so there were cracks all over me, more visible under a certain kind of light, but hey, it was good for your art, right?

i was the perfect muse. didn’t say a word. sat still and let you take me apart with yours.

smiled when you asked me if i’d be okay.

it was kindness, right?

you wanted to peel away layers just to see what lay underneath. i tried to tell you that i already felt rubbed raw. like i was lying on the beach like a piece of glass. that i would cut you if you held me too tight. that i might catch your eye but ultimately felt worthless.

but i said nothing.

there is nothing left to say.

i’m saying goodbye to you, and i think about how this will be the last time i trace your fingers with mine, kiss the back of your neck, let my eyelashes graze your skin.

i think it breaks my heart just a little how my hands will never again find themselves pushing your hair away from your eyes, how my chin will never again rest on your shoulder, how body will never again lean into yours instinctively.

i don’t know how to get used to reminding myself to stop reaching out for you.

i wish you lazy days full of dancing to your favorite songs with no noise complaints from the neighbours.

i wish lots of cheesecake for you. and sliding on floors in fuzzy socks. hugs that last longer than 15 seconds and aren’t awkward. quiet hours spent in a tiny café. books that have notes hidden from previous owners within the pages.

flowers. sunflowers to match your ridiculously sunny disposition.

i wish you empty seats on the bus. a perfect apple in the grocery store. running into puppies every time you take a walk around the neighbourhood.

good hair days and good lighting to match. opportunities to make puns that are so bad they’re good. rainy days when you want to jump in puddles.

i wish you happy tears. so much that joy that you almost can’t believe it

the singer croons about being everything her lover dreads as you spin me around on the dance-floor. 

i want to laugh because i do know what it feels like to terrify. 

to be the phantom under your floor, to leave you with widened eyes and a sinking feeling in your chest.

to leave a messy heart on your doorstep, like the carcass of a small animal your cat dragged in. like some kind of disgusting gift you accept with a grimace and throw out with the trash, with the wilting flowers and painstakingly picked-out pretty words. 

come on, darling, let me slide off this mask.

this smile is chipping and i’m leaving behind paint flecks like breadcrumbs.

will you follow me into the woods? 

let me place my fingers on the side of your face, make you stare at what is awful. 

does this scare you?

do you love this?

does it scare you that you know you do?

it is so easy, to make a monster out of somebody who is ugly.

girl goes to rock show / bows her head / raises her arms / whispers lyrics under her breath / sways back and forth in rapture / a stage is all an angry girl can pray to / a godless girl / a tired girl who will go out fighting / dance past the knives flung at her / dance on the edge with bleeding feet / dance with smoke in her lungs / throwing back her hair / grinning the smile of somebody who’s bitten off more than she can chew / knowing she’d rather grit her teeth / bite her lips / keep it in rather than spitting it out / girl in a stand-off / her back to the wall / says “bring it on” / jumps and is suspended in the air for a moment / flying for a moment / lights shining off her / like someone stepping out of the pages of a comic book / invincible / unbroken / free

nothing matters when we’re dancing, under all the bright lights with our hands linked. we’ve got firecracker hearts and they’re going off tonight because we’re celebrating love.

the kind of love that melts like caramel on your tongue, the kind of love that can’t be contained in your mouth so you let it spill out as song and laughter and content sighs, the kind of love that you don’t have to grit your teeth to survive.

tonight, we celebrate the love we wear on our sleeves with pride because we didn’t come out to be terrified, to be pushed back into the shadows, to hide behind closed doors like an unpleasant secret.

tonight, we wear all the colors we love, all the glitter and sequins and rhinestones, we’re the stars of our stories and we’re spinning in circles in the centre of the stage.

tonight, we move like we’re creating a symphony with our bodies, all intricate movements linked together by invisible string.

tonight, we’re kicking our heels off and dripping sweat, we’re tossing tangled hair and winking with eyes lined with smudged kohl. we’re less than perfect, we’re a beautiful mess.

we’re a spectacle that you can’t take your eyes off and we’re waiting for you with outstretched arms.

there’s enough of the limelight for everyone to share.

you made me laugh through my tears, spin poems about bittersweet meetings, feel like falling in love is just something fun to do.

you made me surrender and feel safe in so many little ways.

when i first held your hand on a crowded street and wasn’t ashamed when people stared, or when my body was pressed against yours in a bookstore, and i closed my eyes and just listened to you read instead of feeling compelled to watch your fingers turn pages, or when you fed me the last piece of your cake in a café and i didn’t hate myself because of how easily i let you. 

there are so many ways to say that i miss you, and this poem is just one of them. 

missing you is nothing like the softness of your palms against mine, it’s like a knife in the side, like pricking my fingers on needles everytime i think of that smile, it’s walking on glass with no shoes on.

but i’d dive into our memories just so i can salvage some of the things you made me feel, make a time capsule i can look at once i’ve healed because our love has to mean something.

somewhere in my mind, there’s a space cleared for us. a dancefloor where the two of us sway together, tripping over each other’s feet and laughing over the music, like we have all the time in the world. 

college boy shares a meme that says, “depressed girls suck dick better because they’re really trying to choke and die.”

and oh, how funny.

how funny that he only thinks about how fuckable a sad girl is, that the same thing that makes her want to unzip her veins is supposed to make her better at unzipping his pants, that when she kisses whoever wants her to get a taste of self-destruction, he sees

easy

slutty

disposable

sees the length of her skirt and the list of her lovers as invitation to place his hands on her body, sees the wine-bottle in her hand as a sign of an imminent conquest, sees the lack of protest as locker-room banter material.

how funny that you could be losing your mind and a boy might tell you that he would kiss your scars and make it all okay, that you could be rocking back and forth on the bathroom floor but panic attacks make him uncomfortable (jeez, he only likes crazy in the sheets), that you could be crying after he touches you and the next day he still has the audacity to send you a 2 A.M text asking, “you up?”

how funny that college boy could see you as a manic pixie dream, but only fun when you put away the sadness for a night, only wants you when you’re slipping out of your clothes, only looks at you with interest tinged with disgust like you’re a disaster unfolding on television; a trainwreck he wants to observe from a safe distance (unless you’re in his bed, of course).

he chooses to look at your suffering and make it a fetish, presses on your wounds just so you can run back into his arms, watches you dance on the edge and might just get off to it.

college boy prefers being turned on by the girl who is a hot mess, girl barely held together by false promises, girl who gave up on herself long ago.

girl, who despite everything, picks up her clothes and manages to walk out the door. girl who deserves better than being a porn category, than being a doll that fulfils his needs. girl who paints a smile on with red lipstick because anything else would be giving in, admitting defeat.

girl who is not college boy’s fucked-up fantasy.