Thursday, August 16, 2018

Anna

She is a shadowy wisp in my lungs,
Moving throughout my breathing being,
Cautious, quick, and simple.
There is no use in trying to force her down-
Away.
She sticks to tissues and begs to be born again.
And in my weakness I will oblige.

I am no stronger than that ephemeral wisp.
She pushes against my insides,
While I push against her with lungs at full capacity.
And we do no more than children
Breathing upon opposite sides of the same pane of glass,
Writing secret messages with our fingers that only appear
Backwards and wrong.

In my braver moments, she retreats to my stomach
Where my mouthfuls of words stopper up and bubble,
In my moments of weakness, I feel her circling
In the back of my throat like an eel, a gag.
And once again, I am a shy child reluctant to speak.
I draw pictures with the hands in my lap,
Though no one sees.

No one ever sees.

A Thought, a Thought.

The only reason I bother you so much is because I love you.

When you're out late, having the time of your life,
Believe me when I say that I'm happy for you.
I'm so incredibly grateful for those nights
Because I remember the times when those nights wouldn't come.
When you laid in bed wishing for change,
Hoping one day you'd meet someone you could call a friend.

Now that those nights have come,
And those friends have walked into your world with
Open arms, 
Open minds,
Open bottles,
All I ask for in return is a thought.
One or two words, just letting me know that you're safe.
That all those moments I spent next to you in bed,
-When you were feeling lonely and downtrodden-
That those nights weren't in vain.
So I don't have to look at these blessings with contempt,
And curse the names of those I call blessings.

Please, just a thought.
Because you're always in every thought of mine.

Friday, August 10, 2018

Seattle

There's a stone in my mouth.
It sits against my teeth and
pushes them out.
One by one, they hit the floor,
Plinking across the tile like skipping stones.

It salts my wounds where
They left me,
And I hate the taste of the flitting river fish.
But my jawbone is sore and creaking,
And it, too, falls to the floor.

I never expected much from empty promises.
They're nothing more than hollow sighs,
A waste of air,
Like rain plodding against a child's rubber ball.
Echoing, vacant, and flat.

We will never go to Seattle.
You're only saying we will now
Because you're caught in a riptide of guilt,
And basking in the glory of a
Magical moment away from me.

I realize now that you've grown
Too accustomed to my presence
And have decided it's no longer necessary
To love me the way you used to
When we were still new to this.

And this stone you've placed in my mouth,
It hurts so badly, but I can't speak
Around it.
I'm gagging on unspoken words
And the taste of fish.

It's so unforgiving.
I can't seem to swallow my pain,
Nor can I cry out for help.
And you're daydreaming about Seattle
While I crumble to rubble on the floor.

Is this the feeling of falling out of love?
I'm scaring myself with my own poetry.
But it's all gushing around the stone,
And it won't leave me be.
I think I'll be carried away completely.

You'll never read this poem anyway.

Tooth Marks

While you remember her freckles, her hazel eyes, her form
I remember her glow, her gaze, her soft pull
And you underestimated her
You tasted her sweet and you knew her body
But her mind was clouded with a certain mystery
Only she could see

While you danced along her edges and sang to her sands
I was awash in her tides, and she lapped against my hands
And I knew her
I knew her state, her ever-flowing compassion
And you entered her like an eager child
So she was cold

While I breathed her in and let her salt cleanse my miseries
You devoured her, hungry, like an aching animal, licking injuries
And you chewed her
She felt each tooth like the start of decay
And she confided to you her rot
And to me, her name

However much I loved her, she is too much like the sea
Always present but ever-leaving, receding.
And she left again
And much like the water, the salt she is made from
She slipped through my open fingers

And you grasped at open air to contain her

Friday, July 20, 2018

Astrid

I was somehow convinced that I was a product of your poetry.
I thought your words were what defined me
And your voice was what sang me into being.
I truly believed that if you played just one note of my simple melody
Things would be okay.

I never realized how I was distracted from your intentions.
The way your words tripped over each other,
Twisted into brutal entanglements that I thought intricate at first,
But were truly enigmatic and unnecessary,
Utterly riddled with thorny thought, and made oh so ever-present by the savage angles of your 
font. 

I believed my worth was written in your handwriting.
That if you just wrote one solitary verse in my name,
I'd be birthed once more as a celestial muse to your divine vision.
Little did I know that your form was more pedantic than prophetic.
I dwindled in the dying scenery like a low candle, dripping wax upon the horizon's inky 
twilight.


I felt as though my life's purpose was contained within the vial of your sultry ink.
My potential frothing upon the lip of the well,
And slowly bubbling, flattening, oozing back down into carbon depths,
Losing hope, but eager to be plunged upon and thrust into existence.
However, you said my pages embodied the stain of virginity, and thus they remained permanently untouched.

I soon thereafter realized that my essence was simply not meant to be drawn.
Not painted with words, nor scrubbed against and berated by prickly brushes and sharp nibs.
And so, hand over hand, I scaled the length of your pen
Slouching, like a cryptid, to sit upon the back of your palm.
I guided your hand.


Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Something Unnatural

Time sits in my belly like something unnatural in the waters of a slow sunrise.

Daybreak - it ripples as it's dropped from the sun.
Late morning - it curls up in a ball and sinks.
Early afternoon - it bobs to the surface and smiles.
Evening - it escapes behind the mountains in a flurry of pink.
Fresh legs to take it where it pleases.

At night - I feel it well up inside of me
It's the angry fire of an glowing and eternal drowning.
My lungs fill with a briny nothingness I can't expel nor explain.
And the time in my tummy keeps ticking and counting.
And counting.

It's the feeling of falling with
Nothing but empty air rising up to catch me.
Placing, in my mind, all of the scenarios around me
Hoping even just one of them is enough to ground me this time.
I crave that enlightenment.

The future - it sits in my mouth like a light bulb.
Easy to dream of more than my anatomy will allow.
Pull it out, and risk breaking the jawbone.
Bite down and suffer the consequences of my eagerness.
Bite down anyway.

Forever counting, that ticking time bomb in my tummy.
Crawling up my throat and out from between my teeth
At regular intervals.

That frustratingly honest ticking
Smothered beneath the blanket of vacant distractions
And hilarious distortions of the truth.

Plummeting from the stars
          there's nothing.
Only an absoluteness of decent

Breaking the surface,
           bone and body,
As lifeless as a coin from a child's fat fingers.

All form unravels,
            Earthly feeling
Releases me, and there's a fire inside, but I'm so cold.

Counting.


         Counting.

                     Belly time bomb, counting.

    Reset,             
                      adjust,       
                                      undo,


                                                                              boom.

Saturday, June 2, 2018

4:45 A.M., Post 3 Hour Internet Chat

Its is a black ooze.
A shadow on the face
A slimy obscenity
A ripple in the fat flesh,
Jaundiced.

Blood terror, eye-stripping
Venom-winged whorish thighs.
And the vision distorts again
A new face, the old face
Not your face.

Your face. It's a plague. A funk.
You wish you could pick
it from your cheeks.
Believe me,
I wish you could too.

As much as I love that face.
The face I fell in love with
Things change. And stay the same.
You were always the same.
At the cheekbones.

It's late. I should sleep.
It's at times like this the poetry seeps
Creeps across the page
Like black ooze -- wholly unrelated --

Maybe I just need coffee.
Or a hot demon chick.