You said you wanted all of me

So here I am

Darkness

Melancholy

Rage

Why are you walking away?

༄

You know what you’ve done

But to say it out loud

Is too brutal a reality

It would be suicide by honesty

And you are such a coward

༄

I remember a time when

I thought he would change

When I thought that my love

Would take his anger away

What a dangerous choice

I was willing to make

To sacrifice myself for a man

Who could never be saved

༄

When I look back at my life

I only recognize it for a moment

And then it’s gone

༄

I am so tired

It doesn’t matter how much I sleep

The sadness and worry

Are too heavy for me

And everytime I put them down

To breathe a sigh of relief

I hear the sound of fear and anger

Begin to slowly creep

༄

I remember his hands

The way they held me so tightly

The way they let me go

༄

Poetry is my lover

She always let’s me in

To cry

To listen

To confess all my sins

She found me voiceless

Wishing my tears were diamonds

So that I could buy back some time

Her poems come out of my heart

My eyes

My mind

She is so soft

And she never leaves

Thank you

My sweet lover

Poetry

༄

The day will still come

No matter how hard you close your eyes

The night will kiss the day goodbye

Painting colors in the sky

Welcome the darkness

Embrace the light

Don’t fight against the up’s and down’s of life

༄

Everyday I wake up

I hope something will change

But all I see is more lines on my face

The demons are laughing at the angels

That are supposed to protect me

Time passes by

There is only decay

All of my prayers keep running away

The darkness has depression

And there is no escape

༄

If I stay one more day

Maybe it will all be ok

༄

Sunshine is such a good lover

I like the way she burns

She veils my body with her warmth

I am dressed only in her light

She opens me up like a flower

But she never spends the night

༄

i sense your inner vanity:
silver, polished, shining
and see that self-reflection
is priority, not self-hiding

so learn about your hollows, love
learn about your flaws
find the darkest parts inside
and place the spotlight on your core

because within you is a human
just trying to be good
and i think
sometimes
that little selfish heart
is sorely misunderstood

i have a new addiction
to the vices i call ‘medicine’ -
but i promise it’s prescribed

chocolate, for the tears
coffee, for the head
oxytocin, for the heart

and when in need,
take all combined.

Are we only binding time

‘Til I lose your attention?

—Taylor Swift, Nothing New.

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm

We had crossed each other’s way:

But we made no sign, we said no word,

We had no word to say;

—Oscar Wilde, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol.

i’m laying on his bed;
but all i can think about is the tiny bit
of wallpaper that is scraping off 
in the corner by your bedroom door.

he’s cradling my fingers;
but all i can think about is the time
we were talking about the universe and
you absent-mindedly started
tracing stars on my hand.

he’s nuzzling my neck;
but all i can think about is the beautiful mark
you left on my collarbone after we got drunk
at 3am and snuck onto your neighbour’s roof.

he’s caressing my cheek;
but all i can think about is the cold touch
of your fingers that night and
i knew that you had slipped into the darkness
again
and my thighs weren’t warm enough for you.

he’s kissing my lips;
but all i can think about is the curve on your upper lip 
and the time we made out for hours
and how you left a horrible taste in my mouth afterwards 
because you had gone through two packs of marlboro that day
and how i stayed
even though you gave me every reason to leave
and now i can’t be in bed with a beautiful boy 
who likes the way i speak
because all i can think about 
is how chapped you left me,
just like your lips.

-@heavyemptyheart

The poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, from his book, Rewards and Fairies 1910. Read aloud by Dennis Hopper on the Johnny Cash Show in 1970. One of my favorites.

“Introduction:

Once upon a time, Dan and Una, brother and sister, living in the English country, had the good fortune to meet with Puck, alias Robin Goodfellow, alias Nick o’ Lincoln, alias Lob-lie-by-the-Fire, the last survivor in England of those whom mortals call Fairies. Their proper name, of course, is ‘The People of the Hills’. This Puck, by means of the magic of Oak, Ash, and Thorn, gave the children power

     To see what they should see and hear what they should hear,
     Though it should have happened three thousand year.

The result was that from time to time, and in different places on the farm and in the fields and in the country about, they saw and talked to some rather interesting people. One of these, for instance, was a Knight of the Norman Conquest, another a young Centurion of a Roman Legion stationed in England, another a builder and decorator of King Henry VII’s time; and so on and so forth; as I have tried to explain in a book called PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.

A year or so later, the children met Puck once more, and though they were then older and wiser, and wore boots regularly instead of going barefooted when they got the chance, Puck was as kind to them as ever, and introduced them to more people of the old days.

He was careful, of course, to take away their memory of their walks and conversations afterwards, but otherwise he did not interfere; and Dan and Una would find the strangest sort of persons in their gardens or woods.

In the stories that follow I am trying to tell something about those people.”

Rewards and Fairies, by Rudyard Kipling

Sometimes I feel

I’m the last living soul

Am I here with others

Or am I really alone?

Did I die a few months ago?

Am I in purgatory?

Reliving the same days,

Each task like a memory.

Is it disassociating -

Or is it acceptance in disguise?

Can you be alive

But long ago died?

Am I walking?

Am I talking?

Am I trapped as a being?

Am I a half blind chick,

In the land of the seeing?

Is my breath still warm,

Or am I covered in dirt?

Expelling a cold sigh

As I decompose in earth?

Was I ever here?

Did my life subside?

Or is each happy memory just a memory of lies?

Am I trapped in a netherzone

Where I’m both hungry and empty -

Where gentle presuppose is just interpretations of envy?

Am I the main character

Of pop-up cut-out personalities;

Or do I exist in static screen realities?

When the scene cuts to commercial,

Do I disappear?

Am I peddling a product of life and ideals?

I’ll catch an eye of a stranger

Who sees as I see,

And percieve his perception of our lives so clear -

Am I a figment

or did you see me?

Did we hold ourselves too high -

Like tides

on the non-existent sea?

Am I perceivable to the naked eye?

Or am I caught on the breath,

Of someone else’s sigh?

Can you hear me??

Am I really here??

If I’m writing on the Empty,

Is there still Fear?

“ So confused

I’m so confused,

Lonely,

Frustrated and upset,

I have no clue what to do,

Someone please help me,

I think I really need you.

”

End

Poetry

I used to look at my dad

Like he put the stars in the sky.

In my eyes he could do no wrong.

He fought the monsters beneath my bed,

And kept all the bad things away.

All of the monsters were afraid of him.

He was my hero.

But at 11 years old I watched as my dad

Turned into someone I did not want to know.

And I realised then, that I should be hiding beneath my bed with the monsters.

Not hiding from them, but hiding from

Him.

Dad (justyouraveragedorkygirl)

when you feel reduced

to just a human

to just a speck,

to just a stack of atoms,

i will magnify

your every moment,

your every word,

your everything

you think departs

once it occurs.

i will recognize a monument

when you swear

you’re just a shack,

i will behold a sun to orbit,

when you think

you’re the blade of grass.

i will be the microscope

that always finds what matters

amidst your mass.

- “what matters”

you tossed me lifejackets when i drowned in days that turned hours into thrashing waves.

you douse me with extinguishers when i burn down like a house

because i can’t make my body feel like a home.

you put strength in my bones like it’s a gift of love,

but when you feel most forlorn and the universe looks pointless,

i will slip power back into your pockets like it’s something borrowed,

because we are not ever truly alone and you have always been the point.

- “something borrowed”

misery afflicts me like a disease, 

but hope makes an addled physician out of me,

as i devour paintings and poetry, love and lyrics 

and everything in between as medicine,

in hopes that the Polaris 

or a forget-me-not 

or anything, 

anything, 

anything could be

the remedy. 

- “remedy”

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like 

cowering in a black room because bleak thoughts 

make the world spin, when i yearn to be motionless, anchored to ceramic tile—anchored to something.

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like 

cradling my quivering body when the world says 

i should wield it like machinery, 

as if these soft hands could ever tear down anything besides myself.

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like 

seeping blood, sweat and tears as i mourn the wounds instead of stitching them up.

i am a fighter even if my fight looks like

longing to surrender, but lingering for hope to trickle in like light through a cracked door. 

- “another kind of fighter”

i buried the map to my body, my being, like it was something to grieve, 

but you discovered it like treasure; you unearthed places only i knew of 

with such tenderness i would swear we’ve swapped bodies through kisses 

because how could anyone else find flowers in a wasteland? 

how else could i be loved, as i have always ached to be loved, 

if not through my own hands? 

- “buried treasure”

you cannot tell me that time is an arrow, as i stand taller than my mother, 

yet shrink in her shadow like it’s my first day of school and i am 6 years old. 

and often i still am, as i transport worms out of gutters and mourn snails squashed on pavements. 

but sometimes it’s 12 am and i’m 7, dissecting dark corners in my room like it’s a crime scene

and i’m now the investigator searching for ghosts

in place of monsters that once made me the victim. 

other times it’s 6 am and i’m 10, but i’m not stirring from nightmares, 

i’m slipping out of bed and into them, like shackles instead of slippers. 

then i’m 14 with secrets that mark me in scratches, in bruises and insecurities,

but i mask them with lies and schoolwork and sweaters and smiles

that split my face in half to distract from the pit that is my chest. 

suddenly—perhaps finally—i’m 16 in August and every hour is 3 in the afternoon;

the hospital bed feels like the precipice and everything that comes after is the descent

because time is not linear, it is not the arrow or the bullet. 

sometimes it feels like the plunge before the collapse,

like forever pointing the gun, but never pulling the trigger,

or standing with the bow drawn, but never letting go because you’re always pulling back. 

- “time is no arrow”

if turning water into wine

could make a man divine,

you must surely be sublime

the way you turn a February moon

into a waxing gibbous,

and a city sky’s dull stars

into clusters of wishes,

and the way you make

poetry from prosaic sentences,

and backseats and bedrooms

into replicas of heaven.

you change music of any genre

into gospel, of which i sing

in love and in reverence,

“you are divine,

you are divine!”

of this, i’m certain.

should you ever question your sanctity

or—god forbid—my worship,

may these poems be the proof,

the evidence,

the testament.

- “you are divine”

you were dollhouses and cartoons on Saturday afternoons, sleepovers and shenanigans and secrets our parents never knew, you were my first home away from home, the kind of sister you choose through love, not blood. you were swimming pools and root beer floats and amateur duets in the back seat of your mother’s car. 

you were letters from California and loneliness in classrooms and school buses in Florida. you were open arms and ease and faith that friends can stay friends despite how they leave. 

now you’re a birthday party i won’t attend, but you’re still a birthday i won’t ever forget. you’re a single picture posted on a screen, as i wonder what you sound like or if you still think of me. 

you’re Sunday brunches with people i don’t recognize, but sometimes envy, because i wish they were me; they get to know who you are now and i’ll only know who you used to be.

- “you were dollhouses”

⚠️TW: domestic violence, intimate partner violence⚠️

they left you breathless,

and you swear it’s the kiss 

before the punch,

or the kiss on the bruise

that was left after one

that proves it’s love.

the butterflies have left,

exhaled in every breath 

you cannot catch,

but should chase after

with urgency.

i weep for the ones

still out of breath 

and unable to move;

they mourn for butterflies

as they choke for monsters 

that look like lovers 

they once knew. 

- “still out of breath”

we stood outside in the cold, 

away from the restaurant,

just to take a moment or two alone

to kiss and to sway and to hold hands,

like two people who know how to love,

but not how to dance.

and the thought crossed my mind

in between the kisses and hugs 

that made a crisp night cozy,

that this is love, backstage;

these are the moments others can’t see 

or resent or reduce to a play,

like devotion is only a thing 

that’s faked for accolades.

but the way i’d let myself 

ice over in March

just to melt in your arms 

on an empty sidewalk,

or a vacant parking lot,

must just be scenes they crop out

in films we use like soundtracks,

instead of movies to watch.

- “backstage love”

i sink in sadness

and often it is love

that pierces through

the fog, 

the dark, 

the dread,

like a lighthouse 

unveiling the shore,

like something to swim to,

like something to swim for. 

- “lighthouse”

may the ones i leave behind never lie in their journals, in their conversations, or to themselves and call me “too good for this world,” when the world and i have always been two of a kind. let it be known that not all unsuitable things are too perfect or too light to be ill-matched for the place you were born into; some of us are heavy, some of us are undoubtedly flawed. no, we were never ethereal, we were mere mortals straining to be. 

- “ethereal”

i couldn’t say their name if i tried,

when there once was a time

i spoke it like a body takes a breath;

i never forgot how to breathe

like i never forgot what a person can mean,

despite how i avoid them by crossing the street.

-“like a body takes a breath”

tw // sexual abuse

a kiss without consent 

is not a kiss you have to count 

when a friend asks if you recall your first 

and they ask how it felt. 

a kiss that left an aftertaste 

of shame and regret, like a scar, 

is not a kiss at all

if it feels like you’re marred.

i beg a God who i often resent

that you learn how to kiss clean lips 

without reproaching your own

for the time someone’s unwanted tongue 

slipped through your mouth,

like a thief slinks through a home,

despite how many times you said no, 

no, no, no.

-“a kiss without consent”

love has no fixed face, love has many. 

i taste love on the lips of my lover. 

i hear love amidst my family’s laughter. 

i rest my head on love, 

on the shoulders of my mother. 

i feel love in my arms and beneath my palms,

and sometimes it looks like a purring cat 

or a sleepy-eyed dog.

to truly appreciate the essence of love 

is to recognize that it can be as diverse 

as it is abundant—and then suddenly,

love is not merely somewhere.

it can be anywhere and everywhere.

-“Valentine’s Day”

you speak like a ballerina pirouettes

and the world listens like an audience 

perched at the edge of their seats.

you make me want to sing, 

but my tongue slides against my teeth

like a lush clings to a wall

once they forget how to use their feet.

the words tumble alongside my gums

and drop from my clumsy mouth

like an accident, like silverware

slipping through butter fingers.

and like a child gets bruised knees,

i get bruised cheeks,

but you’ll plant kisses where it’s blue 

until everything turns pink.

- “clumsy mouth”

i can’t find heaven on the map,

but i’m too scared to ask for directions

because everyone’s got horns or fangs 

or blood on their hands.

i saw wings on your back 

and i’m still not sure if they’re real

or just feathers and wax.

you could be Icarus

though i’m hardly the sun.

it’s always why he plummets

and never where he sinks;

i sobbed that i’m the ocean,

the aftermath, the burial pit

but you just laughed.

so even if your halo’s plastic,

i’d still wear it like a ring 

if you asked.

- “where Icarus sinks”