Overjoyed.

He said your name,
and part of me crumbled inside,
hating how you still had that effect.

But was quickly erected back to life,

Because I am not Samson,
and though you were practically Delilah,
you may cut my hair all you wish,

But I will still receive grace.

Because before that moment,
I hadn’t spared one
single
thought about you
previously in the day.

But then I started to cry,
because that is what healing truly feels like.

 

Sap and Syrup

I once wrote a poem
about how I wanted to hold hands
with a boy whose hands were colder than mine.

And I once wrote a poem
about being curled up on my bed
with someone who stared into my eyes
like he had never seen the color green before;
whose laugh I can still pick out,
with music blasting and crowds of people.

I wrote several poems
about a boy who let me trace the scar
on his right hand over and over
and sang beautifully to whatever song came on 104.5
and changed the radio when I needed to hear “Clarity”
and made me hate it forever after.

And now I’m left writing sad songs,
and morbid poetry.
Domestic violence
and sexual assault in the work place.
I am left trying to impress people
I fangirl over.

And that is not expression.

I am left with erotica spilling from my lips
and onto keys
and names like soft spoken inkwells
because I’m too shy to do slam poetry,
with a confident voice.

But on days when it’s raining
know this:
That I will fit into the curve of your side
and we can watch whatever (even Friends)
and listen to whatever
(but please not rap)
and if you just run your fingers through my hair
or drape an arm over my side
that’s all I want,
that’s all I’ll write.

And maybe, for once, I’ll know what happiness tastes like
without writing about biting collarbones
and meshing flesh.

Little Sister (Let Them Know as Well)

Look at me.
Stop;
look at me.
What are you—-
LOOK AT ME.

Do I have your attention?
Good;
what I’m about to say next is important
and I won’t repeat it.
Unless you need me to,
but what I’m trying to say is
I need you to
believe me
trust me 
when I say:

I love you.

I will always love you.

But I am done fighting;
I am done being beaten.
Armor is rising as my newfound covering
and you may get shut out.
Don’t bother to shout,
because I will not hear you.

But you—-
You gotta know,
you gotta believe

I love you.

I will always love you.

I’ve been rotting inside
for too long, you see.
But now I’m finding strength
to move on
set myself free;
savor the invincibility
of no hindrance,
lest they call back to me…
But I will refuse to listen.

Stop pulling on me.
I told you to listen,
remember?
I won’t remember you;
I will forget you and loving
gand everything else of the sort
but you have got to remember

I love you.

I will always love you.

Even when I stop loving.
Even when I shed myself of me.

I love you.

I will always love you.

I just gotta be free.
Have to find strength,
gain strength;
have to shut off
,
have to kill
me.
But,

I love you.

I will always love you.

Even when I’m no longer me.

Venti

I haven’t said it out loud
but when I turn 20,
I want poetry.

I want you to observe
The precision with which
I draw my cupid’s bow
And how I hold my lollipops
like cigarettes between my teeth.

I want you to know
that I realized a perfect date
is driving anywhere with you
through the intersecting streets of South Jersey,
and we can talk
or sit silently.

I want you to make
me mixed CD’s.
Know my music taste,
but also add on songs that
make you think of me.

I want you to light
my eyes up,
even irrationally.
I don’t want to have to fear
that I’m not “too sweet.”

I want you to write
songs about me,
lyrical sonnets put to melody.
Pablo Neruda meets Tchaikovsky.
Play them on piano, viola, or
ukulele.

On my 20th birthday,
I’m not going to tell you
that I want poetry.
But I’m going to hope
that someone,
some day,
might think these things
and write about me.

Happy Birthday

I’m not gonna lie;
I listen to
“Thinkin’ Bout You”
and I see me rocking against you.

I like to pretend that
you hold my hips
and my body
dips and flows against you
naturally.

Maybe I’m giving you too much credit.

I picture the way our bodies bend,
and if it is any way like I’ve imagined,
God babe,
please break me.

I find that this a pattern
I have with my musings about you.
Something like erotica
something others call sensual poetry.
Because I want to feel your hands all over me
as poisonous and intoxicating as it may be.

And I see the irony,
that the one Frank Ocean song that reminds me about you
shares the name of the one song
you showed me:
Calvin Harris’ “Thinkin’ ‘Bout You”.
Which every time I hear,
I see myself sitting near you in Profs.

I was explaining to someone the other day
about how I’m just naturally affectionate with you.
We always end up with hands together,
eyes searching one another’s faces,
for now…
Because I’ve kept away long enough to become interesting to you again.

I don’t want to fall for you.
I’m barely even attached.
But I do love the way you wait for me,
the way you ask, with a pretenses of a gentleman,
if you may walk me upstairs to get coffee.

And honestly,
I love it when you sweet talk me.
Because I’m a sap and
a fool.
A pretty, little fool
all for you.

“Gatsby.”
You’re more alike
than you will admit.
It’s the bow ties,
I think.
It’s the way you speak,
and I’m wasted without
needing a drink.

I fall into your tone like
I’m plummeting from a cliff.
Catch me in this mesh of sensation
and rhythm.
You owe me a mixed CD.

I guess this is the long way of me saying,
so many times,
I’ve looked up at you,
and wanted you to bend down to kiss me.

Writing this now,
is expelling it out of my system
knowing you’ll never read it,
unless it’s in print.

And as twisted as it may be,
this is my present to you.
“May all your wishes come true.”

I’m thinking about you,
regardless if you want me.

Lyric Poem

People make promises all the time, then they turn right around and break them.
Break me, break things.
Like the lamp you threw at me
in the dark,
wires piercing my veins:
“Look, I made your eyes light up.”
Tears race, spine breaks.
Back slammed into mattress so hard,
earth quakes. Voice shakes. Whiskey
breath in my ear, singing another
wasted lullaby.
No maybe, no baby.
You never had me at hello,
but at first glance, breath
caught in my throat—
Your hands tighten on my neck:
“Can I make you feel that way again?”
Breath-
less.
One mess,
made.
One bed,
laid.
I am,
stained.
Still,
no baby.