I curve my spine and bring my knees to my chest to hold everything together, afraid that my feelings could spill out, or that anyone can see a vacancy for where my heart should be.
I go out to my front porch and light a cigarette with a match and then drop the flaming match into a puddle where it sizzles and I am intrigued at the little death I just caused.
This isn’t what I wanted but your name is stamped onto me like a mark from the carnival. There is no amount of soap that gets rid of that and I know this very well by now so instead I go to the sea and when I’m sure you’ve forgotten about me I notice your name fades from my skin. Imagining your arms holding me tight in bed crashes my heart harder than the waves crashing against the soaking rocks and like a whirlpool I’m sucked in, no escape, no escape, I can’t escape from you, but I’m not entirely sure that I want to.
Evil Doesn’t Pay Rent
Being around you makes me want to fling myself out the window
And just drop
To the waiting ground
Or maybe the hood of a car
Or maybe even a person
Who stopped to light their cigarette.
I can’t tell you that
Being around you makes me want to fling myself out the window
Because that would destroy you
And my mother always told me I had an evil way with words
But I can’t help it when evil lives in my heart
Refusing to leave
Always beating the kindness.
- I tell my mother that he's different and tug on my shirt collar to cover the violet bruise, turning from her quickly and running up the stairs leaving behind a scent of cigarette smoke.
- I hear her whispering her prayers at night, when my brother is fast asleep in the room separating ours, and I imagine her hands gripped tightly together, knuckles white as her eyes around the maroon iris.
- Growing up I wish I got her eye genes, but instead was stuck with my father's eyes the color of ash and I sigh and she hears me and everything goes silent.
- I wish I could bring back childhood memories like other girls can at school, baking with their mothers, Claire and her mother watching the worst movie they could find and laughing way too hard at things that aren't funny. Claire gets wrinkles by the corners of her eyes when she laughs and I imagine that her mother does too. Jen and her mother in their tiny kitchen on the West side baking way too many cookies on a weekday night. Jen never wore a two piece, even when all the girls in the group started, and Jen's mother was always the one in jeans when it was her turn to take us to the pool.
- But all I seem to remember is nothing about my mother, or Claire, or even Jen. I just think of my grandmother's bedroom, during the wintertime, and the beautiful image of the large stretch of snow just catching the consistent snow fall and all of the snow just accumulates on the window ledge and that snow begins to glow, glowing from the covered Christmas lights, and that is all it ever was for me, glowing snow, red and white.
the wind surrounding me like thoughts of you often do,
You’re like a forest fire in my veins and sometimes it stings a little bit but it’s a nice reminder to know I still have you with me even though we’re not so far, but isn’t it strange how I don’t feel close at all, in fact I feel like oil and vinegar we meet together momentarily, sticking together, and then spread apart
If my mother were a fly on my bedroom wall if my mother were a fly on the hanger rack in my car if my mother were a fly on a subway pole if my mother were a fly on the office computer screen if my mother were a fly on someone’s shoulder on the subway platform if my mother were a fly on your bedroom wall.
I want to kiss you until my lips tingle like the bottom of your ring finger when you strum a D note on your guitar string.
"
my mother says she made me strong like amber,
strong like the trees, strong like
how you held me.
yes i am fragile and the light
shines right on through me
and my love i am overflowing
to coat the scars
you left on me
but i think somewhere in all of this healing
part of you got trapped
under new skin
and i will never
get you out
again.
— “He never cared. How could I be so blind.” // r.i.d (via inkskinned)
(via splendentesole-blog)
(via englishmajorhumor)
this will be called “You Can’t Text Me The Kinds Of Things You’re Texting Me And Expect Me To Focus On Homework”
It’s 5:50 a.m.
And the plot of
“A Clean, Well-lighted Place”
slips into my mind
like your finger
when I beg for it.
I don’t know how
but I have become the old man.
I have become both waiters.
But Hemingway is dead
so what is to come of our fate?
After the beat
at the end of today
it goes on and on.
Tomorrow
what does it
matter
you die
I die.
I wonder if he’s Turkish;
I remember him
I bet you do too.
This is weird.
But I love it.
Happy Birthday to me.
Fuck You
And your
Curving corners
Of your pink lips
And your
Laugh that can raise the dead
Does your him know?
Because surely
I do
Your chin turns down
You lean in close
Your lips twitch trying not to grin
Your eyes glow
Wait, really?
