I’d like to say something romantic,
"I fell all the more in love with you each moment you broke my heart".
But the truth is much less poetic:
that those moments made the sweeter ones fade
and as the pieces of my heart became sharper,
the moments I had loved you became duller.
The truth is not a pretty thing,
and don’t let the world fool you,
love is not either.
You are all I think about.
I am not patient,
I am aching.
Have you ever come upon a still lake, and found moutains on its surface?
It is a sight beauitful, and consuming.
You find yourself believing there has never been a before
or after this sight,
that this is the most beautiful your world will ever be.
something pulls you into turning around,
and you see Mountains.
All at once you realize the beauty which had only just captivated of you,
is but a pale imitation, a clever imposter,
of this, the true beauty.
And everything you only thought your former love was,
is found to be real and solid in the Mountains.
To me, you are Mountains.
and I fall into the same nightmare every night,
that I am nothing but the imitation
Anonymous asked: What is on your mind tonight?
I just finished watching the lunar eclipse — I don’t know what I’m thinking but I feel wonder and excitement.
Something about the way the light hit the leaves,
and the way the music hit me,
made the perfect mix of lovely inside me,
just enough to make me think,
there might not be anything this lovely again.
Today I woke up,
as someone I never meant to be.
I waited for dark to come
and tried to walk it off.
I walked with the moon to my back.
I walked for miles,
my feet protest with blisters.
I tried to walk it off.
But you were still in my head,
still in my chest.
I’m wondering if there’s a way back
I’m wondering if I would take it.
I keep thinking of your hands
Your hands on my neck
on my back
You say that you are lost
I would like to find you
but I fear I am getting lost too.
I said I wouldn’t be writing poetry.
I said a lot of things
before I met you.
Three men, two Muslim women,
mostly women like me — white
all of us privileged.
The teacher asks us to sit like a girl,
the boy beside me says
"I can’t cross my legs like that"
I didn’t see him try
we’re told to sit like a boy
we all spread out
all the world is our personal bubble
we discuss the trend of
science professors being majority male
the boy next to me insists his are even.
I begin to wonder why he is here,
I wonder if he will change at all
I wonder why he isn’t offended
that men were once not allowed
to be elementary school teachers
for fear they would molest the children
or that commercials suggest they need a woman
to clean up after them.
The men I see are using pens
and the women pencils.
I wrote it all down
but it did not quiet
and has only made the
echoes of your touch