April 7, 2014
Three cigarette butts at the end of the table, three more days and I hope you never come back
We’re June in winter, and if that’s true, you’re Springtime too early
Came up too fast, pushed through the ground
And winter never left
Now all the flowers are dead and you can’t bring them back
Fuck you and your lazy Earl Grey voice
That never said a single true thing to me at all
And your bedroom window that filters light like you filter your thoughts
Keeping all the kind things in
I’m gasoline underfoot
Don’t tread me onto your carpets
One drop of a match and I’ll set the establishment on fire until they’re burning in the capitol building
I’m burning in all capitals.
H E L P M E G O D D A M N I T I A M D Y I N G.
No one really reads these days
For anyone who is interested in how things have changed:
Give her your affection and she’d give you the freckle on the inside of her hip
She was that kind of girl.
Green apple vodka with bruises under her shirt
The kind of girl who’s smile broke your heart before you even realized your heart was hers
The kind of girl who made you wish you’d taken painting classes so you could keep her morning eyes always
Hanging on your walls in distant shades of grey
The kind of girl who made you wish you’d learned to write music instead of learning to paint
Because her laugh was bells and whistles
And the saddest thing you’d ever heard
Give her ten minutes of your time and she’d give you anything you asked for
And you’d never know what to ask for because you’d never imagined you’d have a girl like her
A fear of the dark, torn cuticles, and an inability to stay within the lines of time
One morning you would wake up to an empty closet
You’d realize she was everything and you were a tally on a bedpost
She was that kind of girl
January 30, 2014 — Dandelions
Little dandelions poked their heads out of the graveyard in my chest
And proclaimed to the permafrost and broken branches
That they weren’t afraid of death
So my ribcage shook, the structure burst, the foundation crumbled in
And the dandelions laid flat, made foolish
Never to be seen again
December 17, 2013 — Lock and key
I built myself a house with a door that never unlocked
And a welcome mat that said come in
I guess you could say I’m a tease at heart
If you could ever reach my heart that is
There were no blinds on the windows, but there was no way past the bars
You could look in from in between their iron teeth
You just couldn’t get past their reach
I laid out teacups in a perfect line, and hung pictures of us on the wall
You could see throw pillows on the couch (what the hell is the point of a throw pillow?)
And you could see my bedroom door
I built myself a door without a doorknob
And a room without a light
So when you sat on the sidewalk and said you loved the living room
And you love what I’ve done with the place
I could fall asleep in the darkness of a heart you couldn’t touch
Where there’s nothing beautiful to see
We curled up in the cheap glow of cheaper Christmas lights and swallowed romance down like English breakfast tea (your favorite), taking in gulps of candy colored warmth
That’s how we kept this thing alive, if you’re wondering
We wrapped ourselves in winter scarves on winter nights so that we could see the snow swirling, the Earth breathing, and not each other
You looked at the outline of my shoulders while I looked at the sky, and I wondered whether snowflakes jump from a home they don’t feel like they belong in anymore
I’m floating through this dark expanse at the mercy of gravity, I’m pale, I’m different, I’m a lot of things
And when the holiday displays are tucked away and you’re finally looking at me
Shedding my layers and naked without the blues and greens of tiny plastic lights
I’ll hit the pavement and disappear
They’ll be looking at the outline of you and you’ll be looking at me
As pale and pretty as I ever was in the flurry of my melting winter melancholy
And in the blizzard of the way you can’t quite explain to people what was beautiful about me
You’ll think back to Christmas lights and tea
And you’ll wonder why it couldn’t keep me alive
Breathe in, don’t forget to breathe out
Even the streetlights are tired tonight
We’re wrapped up and naked in your sheets
And I can’t untangle my legs from the soft cocoon of your ivory melancholy
Your breaths are cold, and I wonder how that’s possible
Maybe it’s cold inside your ventricles tonight
Maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling so numb
Neither of us are speaking, only you’re breathing
And I wonder where the thud of my heartbeat ran away to
I think you wonder too, but neither of us want to break the silence
So much is already broken
Breathe in, and we’re both picking up on subtle notes of apathy and dissonance
It’s a floral blend of apologies that neither of us owe each other
Breathe out and this whole room’s on fire again
I’m too tired for this, and I’m too fragile for you
The moonlight is all caught up in your hair
There’s a world out there dancing across your answering machine
I wonder who thinks of you when I can’t anymore
I wonder who thinks of me
Breathe out and this will all be gone
Pale blue eyes and to do lists on my arms
I guess I’m not everyone’s type
Crossing off miseries like milk and eggs
I’m wrapped in another stranger’s sheets (again)
I take it back
I’m everyone’s type but yours
Poems on crumpled napkins
Red lipstick and tipsy confessions
I guess I could if I wanted
If it would make you love me
I forgot to lock the door tonight
Just bad music that everyone else grows out of
And cold hands from only being held in cold hearts
Why does loving myself feel like an affair?
Cinnamon tea and Splenda
I’m a certain flavor of je ne sais quoi
Good for winter nights, but not my favorite
Apparently not yours either
October 23, 2013 — Hands
There are hands all over me, searching for something I’m not sure I have to give, something that’s no longer mine to give if it’s even there at all
There are these scathing, tracing, imploring hands all the god damn time, and their grasp tightens when I pull away, whispering “what’s the rush, sweetheart”
And then kissing my shoulders, my neck, my hands.
God, these hands. This burning.
There are hands that are constantly touching me where I can’t even touch myself, where I can’t even stand to look.
Don’t touch my stomach. Don’t touch my thighs. Don’t touch my scars.
Just don’t. fucking. touch. me.
They’re in my hair now, on my waist then
around my neck
And still they’re always wanting more. What part wasn’t enough, I wonder.
Or maybe it was just all of me. But I’m so soft.
I’m so beautiful.
I’m so sexy.
So I go back then, shameful, shameless, so damn ashamed, back into the dark, caressing cold
To spend another night shaking in another pair of hands to hold me
Please, just…. please
Why can’t anyone please just hold me?
October 2, 2013 — At eighteen
At eighteen I’m the scent of second-day hair with perfume in it
It smells like your bed, and my sweat, and your exhales, and my Juicy Couture Viva la Juicy . How middle school of me.
I’m the cool touch of unwashed sheets on bare skin because the thermostat is fussy, and I like sleeping naked
Just me, you, and this body that I don’t like so much right now, but I’m eighteen, and I’m working on that.
I’m leggings while they still pass for pants, and the chewed up ends of pens in twenty different colors
Chinese homework has really turned me into such a biter, and I claim to love all those darling pens equally, but I’m a discriminatory bitch, and I show my blue pens the most love
I’ve teethed them half to death
I’m not even close to halfway to death assuming things go well for me. Oh, please let things go well for me.
At eighteen I’m the taste of chai and menthol because that’s what’s sexy these days
I’m all about what’s sexy these days. Apathy, really bad electronic music, bare midriffs.
Funny since at eighteen I don’t want anyone to touch me
This body is my project, please don’t even look at me like this, all insecure and exposed. Please just let me curl up, and please let me be by myself.
I wish my mother were here to bring me a popsicle. My throat hurts from all the screaming I do these days.
At eighteen I guess I’m still a little angsty, but I just want you to love me
God, do I want you to love me.
I want you to patronize me with the warmth of your arms and undress me with strong, resolved hands
Don’t touch me, just look at me and tell me that I’m perfect and naive because at eighteen I’m still milky white, soft, and broken
I’m a sight for sore eyes, a new sight, your sight
For god’s sake
Just love me.
I sat on the patio and looked around, somehow retrospectively, at this new home of mine. The sun had just moments ago tucked itself away below the green canopy of Georgia trees, casting everything around me in an easy, lethargic yellow that made it feel like a previous decade. The soft, gentle whirling of coffee-house music coming from the patio speakers also made it feel like a previous decade, though I suppose if it were a previous decade there wouldn’t have been speakers on the patio.
This was not how I imagined my life at eighteen. Maybe someday, at a time I knew only as a comfortably distant and promising “eventually,” but certainly not eighteen. It was warm and muggy, but in a way that felt nurturing instead of uncomfortable, and as soft breezes erratically broke through the distinct Southern heat to surround me in a graceful flurry of forgotten biodegradable napkins and not-so-biodegradable wrappers and discarded sugar packets, I felt an unnamable something that that I hadn’t in a very long time. It made me uncomfortable: the idyllic Southern afternoon that was now my life. Everything about it was just so. The way brilliantly orange and magenta flowers lined the patio, the way my splenda-sweetened sweet tea lingered with a chemical aftertaste on my tongue, and the way my arms seemed more delicately freckled than they had been the last time I took note of my freckles, which admittedly I’m not sure I’d ever done before.
I wiggled my feet, perched out in front of me on a black woven patio chair, and looked over both shoulders anxiously. There was just something troubling about so much simplicity, and I couldn’t for the life of me shake the feeling that any second the light would stop filtering itself through the trees so beautifully and some sort of horrible, violent crime against my romantic Sunday afternoon would take hold of me, drowning me in the inevitable reality that moments like this don’t come often. Not for people like me. I reluctantly blinked, but when I opened my eyes again nothing had changed. An old woman got out of her car, a napkin shyly crawled a few feet across the patio, and the greedy sound of my straw sucking up my last few drops of tea momentarily pierced the sad melody of a song I didn’t know.
This was my life now.
I think the thing about being sad for so damn long is that you forget everything else. You forget what if feels like to unwrap your arms from around your torso, and to stretch them forward and in any direction you please without risking your sadness exploding out of your body in the absence of physical restraints to prevent such a thing. You forget that “eventually” was never marked down on your calendar, and that just like adulthood, it can creep up on you long before you expected, leaving you bitterly heartbroken and anxious over how eighteen years can pass so quickly, and so shamelessly without your consent. You forget that sometimes there’s nothing to hate, and nothing to hide from.
But in that surreal, pastoral, somehow simple moment, as everything made a slow and gradual transition from yellow to a grateful tint of indigo, there was nothing to hide from. I was just a simple and unaffected eighteen, and this was Sunday afternoon the way I always imagined it happened for other people, but never could conjure the optimism to believe it would so readily happen for me. I pulled my pale legs in under me, taking brief but unconcerned notice of the lightly pink pattern of a machine-manufactured woven patio chair that stretched across my calves, and I took a long breath in. This was my life.
August 14, 2013 — Growing up
When I was a little girl I used to get sick a lot. I’d curl up in my bed with my faithful plush friends in my faded Christmas pajamas and we would wait together until my mom came into my room with a popsicle for my swollen throat. She knew grape was my favorite. Recently I’ve been sick a lot too, except grape popsicles don’t really do so much anymore. It wouldn’t matter if they did, though. My mom doesn’t come in anymore because we can’t risk opening my bedroom door. Six years of self-destructive secrets might get out.
I also didn’t like vegetables as a child. I like them now. I still think they’re better when smothered with cheese. I haven’t had cheese in quite some time, but I bet it still tastes good on everything. Damn calories.
And I bet swings are still fun. I have no verifiable data on this question and too much motion makes me light-headed now a days. I would probably fall off a swing if I got up too high. Starvation is really tough on your sense of stability.
I sleep with my arms wrapped around my knees. Always have and always will. When I was a little girl I hoped that if I made myself small enough, the bad things would never find me at night. I guess that didn’t work out so well though, because one night they must have seeped into my veins, and now I have to hold on tight to try and keep them in.