He loved me when I was a warrior,
whipping off the helmet to expose the mane,
kissing his lips just so he could lick away ash
as I peeled off the armor.
He loved me when I was a coward
and I didn’t unlock the roar in my chest.
When I held my body like a cupboard and
he kept picking at the locks,
if only so I could take a look inside and see.
He loved me when I was raving,
when he drove me mad but still brought me
to the keys, still kept the ink from fully drying.
Called me words like “pretty” and “amazing”
and was gracious enough to meet me in a time
where I was rediscovering the hope chest in my stomach that had stashed away my “worthy”,
with instructions to “only use when ready”.
He loved me
before I put him in these poems
and chose to write about others instead.
He loved me when I confused touch for emotion
and leaving for reciprocation.
He loved me—
and waited until I swore off fireworks,
to come back into my life
and write about how I see the night
in blazing color,
how life is now a never ending metaphor
and awe-slacked jaws if only you let those
who knew your heart when you were closed off
I’m writing on a new WordPress format and that alone tells you how long it has been since I’ve been on this site.
The last poem I posted, “When She Passes By”, was recently published in my university’s literary magazine, marking the fifth publication I’ve been published in.
However, as my writing has changed, so have I and I feel as if I need to come back, pull myself away from that writing community and begin writing again soley for the purpose of my passion for it.
This is where WordPress becomes involved.
I wrote on this site as catharsis, as a journal of sorts, and because of the heartbreak I was going through at the time, I published at least a “poem” a day.
That was two years ago itself. My life and my writing style have both changed for the good and the better. One being that I’m in a new relationship which is changing my view of things and the second being, I want to post on here again.
Yes, I’m still active on my tumblr (spokeninkwells.tumblr.com) and I welcome anyone who reads this blog to check that out. I am thankful I created that, but as time goes on, it has been writing something to get noticed, for the likes, to make others happy and not myself.
The core of this blog was to get my writing out there.
In doing so, I actually had the courage to submit pieces and to be published (within and outside of my school). As the New Year approaches, I want to get back to the roots of doing what I love.
I want to get back to story-telling.
So hello again, old friend.
I’ve missed you.
after Caitlyn Siehl’s “Her, Her, Her”
I met you
with her name on your tongue
and the bass beat of “hurt”.
There was a road wrapped tight around your body,
cities popping up like scars out of flesh,
well-worn and rugged.
You called them “her”.
I called her “gone”.
I met your mouth
with a clash of teeth
your tongue lodged down my throat
with a taste of her.
There are shelters in my hip bones and
hostels on my breasts and you come to each
like a weary traveler begging for rest,
reaching for blankets that look a lot like bodies.
They are not “her”.
You say “someone”.
I meet you
with a boy on my arm
and my heart beating “content”.
He tries to introduce us but you say
“I know her.”
There are skyscrapers sitting in my palms and clouds rolling in your eyes like we have made it to that city, our city, just to watch it downpour.
You tell him “Keep her”.
He tells you “I’m already gone.”
you will wake up
and that will be good enough.
That will be right,
that will be your bones nodding in approval
you’ve done well.
Your life has meaning.
you will walk through the door
and come home to something.
Not to someone,
for surely you’ve realized by now
that you are capable of more than seeking
to be complete, when you can create an ending.
When you hold worlds in your fingertips and kiss them into pages,
feeling the bones of lovers break as they hit the ground you’ve made.
Your work has power.
you will fall back into bed
and forget the times where you didn’t feel anything.
Your eyes will be crinkled like orange rinds,
and your smile will match like a pair of new shoes that go perfectly with that bag you’ve yet to take the tag off of.
Your bones will feel like helium
in your balloon of a body and you will never be so happy for the wrinkles, the holes punched into your skin as you will then.
You are something.
You are so much more than everything.
And they may bring you down,
and they may put you out,
but don’t deny them this:
the determination in your eyes when they say
There’s something about
headlights out at sunsets,
through sepia back windows,
while the sky is fighting to stay bright,
like we need to remind others that
we are still visible.
The sun does not always choose to shine it’s light on us.
If that was so,
maybe you’d see how many times my soul
has been hole punched simply through
not existing any more,
due to message received, but not worth an answer,
seen a face,
but not worth another glance
though I’m sweating out my weight,
my body still finds skin to fold over,
to divot come summer.
I’m full of so many pockets of
cellulite is something I’m beginning to beg for.
At least it holds pieces of me.
Maybe not everything needs to be skin deep.
Maybe scars are just simple reminders that sometimes we want our pain to be seen.
there are pillows surrounding three sides of me,
making me a peninsula.
I convince myself you’re one of the walls.
I let myself fall asleep in your imaginary arms.
I contact you, knowing I’m needy,
and don’t ask for a single thing except a response.
I just want to talk.
But for you that is too much.
I fall asleep in empty sheets,
with extra pillows,
and pray for the embrace of someone.
My entire body is smooth. All soft flesh
and imperfections that I hate a little less when clothed in more melanin.
My legs stretch out before me, stinging with the bite of sun.
I meet cushions instead of your lap.
I fall asleep
in a bed containing one body, knowing I can’t even keep myself warm.
I wish I was curled up against some tangible love,
who hates my hundred pillows.
I want to twist my body to face him instead of finding a wall.
I don’t want to be landlocked,
or triple water-logged.
I want to be an island,
a bit of paradise,
but only in his arms.
Our eyes meet
and suddenly we are an excavation sight.
I’m pulling you out from my smile
and you’re scrubbing me out from under your nails.
We are laid bare,
and tear stains.
They find an urn of us
mixed with my childhood memories
and your grandfather’s ashes.
stone warriors who didn’t dare budge,
who couldn’t for the life of them
imagine simply leaving someone.
Who had the courtesy to be cold to the touch.”
They’re dusting off your scar now;
brush strokes like my finger tracing the back
of your hand.
Like security in something;
love in someone,
even if it’s just at a personal level,
even if you just adore their smile.
Even if your heart stops when you see them months later and no words bubble to the surface,
but you’re now drinking coffee and they’re avoiding your eyes.
They’re just trying to get by
and accepting the change of seasons.
You’re no longer asking for reasons
to why they didn’t stay.
And once again they walk away.
And things could never be the same.
Your best friend is mad because of all the pain
you went through,
but you’re not “her” anymore.
And he doesn’t say goodbye before he leaves the store and it’s like you never happened even two summers ago.
They found the wreck of us, kid.
Picked it up and held it in their palms
as gently as if it they could break it further.
They heard all the words we said at night,
saw all our shared smiles.
They held back from brushing the tears off my face when I cried.
They saw the way two hearts beat in sync, but one still had to break,
because taking that leap, wouldn’t have guaranteed for an easy landing.
They saw what was,
compared to what is,
broke the bubble of what
could have been
and decided to bury us,
give my mind some rest,