Not What You See In The Mirror

She thinks about strangers and the way they make her feel poetry without words, falling in love until her eyes fall away sometimes up to 100 times a day. Feeling as easily as sun comes through a window; warm and stuffy, blocking out the cold and the breeze. She’s a little more lost with a map, a little less tough with a frown. No rose petals falling from hips nor wisdom from mouths, no gold from hair nor feathers from fingertips. She is just the kind to tell you with such conviction that her dreams are truths that you start to believe in the religion of her mind. Don’t be fooled, salt water eyes will drown you not refresh you. She has a storm inside too strong to be seen on the horizon, no calm before because no-one ever taught her to be silent. Cursing life in the same tune she sings it, falling in love with strangers with gardens that need rain in their eyes.

The Second Morning Has The Hardest Hits

 You miss him. More than the first night, more than the second, more than the fourth. So much it hurts but you can’t break free. All you can concentrate on is your breathing while the situation grips you tighter than the demons that sleep with you in bed, hugging you tighter in the morning – telling you to stay with them a little longer. The world doesn’t need you today. But it’s not like that. It’s all consuming, mind numbing, nearly paralyzing sadness. You only cried once this time, it is not the overwhelming kind of anguish that swirls itself like rising ocean tides into every corner of your being just begging to be let out. This is the dry desert heat draining you of your will and resolve. Your chest gets tighter but never tight enough to stop the breath. Your mind gets blanker staring at the same blue wall. 

Having a Hole In Your Being

Sometimes it’s more that you’re missing the part of yourself that was taken when they left, rather than the thief themselves. You jump every time your phone buzzes hoping it’s a message from that piece reassuring you it is safe now in hands more gentle than the ones that took it from you, that it is being put to good use. That although there was no instruction manual, it found it’s place quite nicely nuzzled in another chest. And that it misses you, but somehow feels it is better off. You look at the patchwork that is yourself and all of who you are that is bit’s of other people while trying to remember if that was ever a part of you that you had a right to let be taken away – that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Taken? Or was it ever even yours to own? You are emptier now, a little lighter. A little heavier in the parts around this now gaping hole. But hopefully the next lesson will fit nicely in that cave. Hopefully it is something the skin of your soul won’t reject. 

The First Night After Leaving You

It’s pathetic really. How all I can think of is how your hands felt on my neck, wondering how it felt to be given all that I was giving to you. How I know that fixing a person isn’t about showing them that what they can’t do is possible, but I did it anyway. It’s so sad how people are not really gardens, love does not make them grow. They digest it and use it to fuel themselves forwards but they never learn how to produce it. All I can think about is kissing you and I’m glad I’m not an idiot because holding onto this would have made me more of a failure than letting go, but at least I would be thinking about your mouth with intent instead of regret.

 

At least I would be thinking about your mouth with intent instead of regret.

 

The Type of Person

If you are the type of person who utters no when I ask to pick flowers from strangers gardens in the middle of a rainy night with the same lips that want to kiss me, be warned. I will make you hate yourself for ever wanting to love me, make you loathe every single time you said no because yes would have been easier than the disappointment in my eyes upon realization that you are not the type of person I want to fall in love with me. If you are the type of person that bends to my every whim and desire even if it puts your own aside, be warned. I will make you regret the day I was a still a stranger and you listened when I told you to kiss me, make you fear my boredom in you more than my sadness from neglect while you wish we had never met because the tears I’m crying are from your hands that hold my face but can’t touch my mind between them.
Ah, there is no winning.

You’ll hate me because you love me, but you’ll love me just the same.
Forget about yourself; you’re lost to me.

Selective Memory

Cut throat razors will remind me of you,

like cut throat words remind you of me.

I will remember yogurt scooping,

cake bringing, ice cream eating,

and messy room.

But how will you remember pushy,

on-time, omelet making,

and clean freak.

When you might be remembering

skinny dipping, house rules, nice bum,

doesn’t like chocolate,

and daddy issues.

But then again you might think I remember

socially awkward, baggy pants, always late,

big mistakes, you deserve more

and nice eyes.

What I know we know is special chocolate chip cookies,

stigmas, stahp, late night Wendy’s,

cry-laughing, medium double-double, 

and eskimo kisses.

Safety-pinned socks will remind me of you,

like safety-pinned seams remind you of me.

These Are Not Artists

Inside out. Smeared on walls, canvas, journals. A bloody piece of “art”. Not red but black and blue. Inconsistent and non-blandiloquent. Falling apart how snow falls from the sky, hitting the ground like tears running away from eyes. This is what happens when you ask someone else to fix you – they get bored and you look fun and here’s the thing. Here’s the thing. The things is, these people aren’t engineers. They are gamblers and prostitutes and homeless and they will use you, not build you up. You will not be featured in a gallery, just a grave. And this is incipient. The only fixing to be had are the patches in their own lives, the plug in the hole in the dam and all the pressure is on you. You are not a corner, not a game, not a home. You are used, blue, and black.