Hey guys, I’m feeling a little blocked lately so I was hoping you might be kind enough to send me the first line of a poem and I’ll finish it.
I’ve written a thousand poems,
about the ways I miss you.
Bu even after all this time,
not a single one has done a thing
to clear the air of your absence.
“poem”
I remember
what the ground felt like
on the night
I tried to die
I remember
What the air smelled like
The next morning
After I had failed
The air smelled like smoke,
The ground felt real close,
But we all made it home.
You will deny that you are tired
as you curl into my chest
an hour before I will fall asleep
and as you drift off
you twitch
in exactly the same way
every night.
And when you wake
in the middle of the night
you roll over with
I love yous
pouring out of you mouth.
For me to tell you
how much I love the sum
of all these moments,
would take much more
than one silly poem
but silly poems are all I have.
I don’t mean
the things I write
except in the ways I do.
The way there is still
a five year old girl inside me
believing she deserves
not to be loved.
There is still a 13 year old me
who does not understand
it’s just chemicals,
who cuts open her flesh
to make sure she bleeds
the same as everyone else.
There is still 16 year old me
who won’t let anyone touch her
because she knows everyone
will leave.
There is still the girl you left
lying awake nights
crying an writing
and begging you to come back.
I tell everyone
“I’m happiest alone”
but the truth is,
I don’t know what it’s like
to not be.
I live in a less-than-one-bedroom apartment
and my phone doesn’t make a sound
during the day.
I’m always holding people too tight
and I don’t realize
my hands are around their neck
until they’re choking out
their last words
“I never really wanted you”
and I think you use
I love you
when you have run out of
other things to say.
I’ve forgotten
that I am happy now.
My heart is still reaching out
for a love
that will never be returned.
Anonymous asked: Its okay, why don't you write about happy stuff? Thats always good :)
Sometimes I do, but I’m just not very good at it. Writing is catharsis for me, and you don’t really need catharsis for the happy stuff.
I’m sorry I have written much lately, but my soul feels all happy and that leaves me with little to bleed onto the page
I left my guts spilled on the pavement
and I watched you walk away
from my window.
I saw only your shadow
and the fire from your lighter
as you tried to burn every memory of me
out of your bones.
My body collapsed in sobs
not the kind where you can’t get off the ground
but the kind where the world can’t be absorbed
through my lungs
where even my fingertips
have lost their sense of touch
there is only my mind drowning
in too many honest thoughts
I’ve let slip from my lips.
I can’t take them back
you can’t un-hear them.
How could I blame you for dragging your body away?
Who would build their home
on a cracking shuttering foundation
like the one I have to offer?
