This is My New Endeavor

I wanna get better.

He sings,
and I want to know
if he knows
how he’s talking
to me.

I wanna get better.

Like it’s not the mantra
of a generation;
like being in one’s head
is an every day
malady
something simple like
“monotony”.

I wanna get better.

So so bad;
I want to be able to look at myself
and not pinch
layers of skin;
I want to look at myself and smile again.
I want to look at my reflection
and go:
There I am.”

I wanna get better.

To understand that
“healing”
is not necessarily complete
because I’m
”with” someone.
That recovery is happening
before falling in love again.
Being a girl-
friend
will not be
the puzzle piece answer to all of my
problems.

I wanna get better.

And stop with the comparisons.
I want to love each
inch of myself
with the fervor of
the seraphim.
I want to crave my own company
the way I crave to hold
another’s hand.
I want to love what I stand for
and the person I am.
And that is not
them.

I wanna get better.

I wanna erupt into fire
and wear my ashes like badges of honor.
Not even think their names
let alone,
remember them.
I want to be defined as
somebody in the now
and not a poet stuck on the
“then.”

I wanna get better.

Get closer with God,
family,
and friends.
Love
without fear of falling
for false intentions.
Want to learn about Him
and myself
and find fellowship in
a church
I want to attend.

I wanna get better.

And though I don’t want to
need their validation,
it’d be nice to be looked at
and have someone say:
“She’s only human and therefore
not perfect,
but my God, does she seem
content.”
And maybe by then

I will be better.

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A Poem for August [1]

Listen,
because I’m about to tell you
the truth
for the first time.

I’m about
to let them in on something
so private,
I’ve let myself be blind.

Because though I said I have,
though I said I’d tried,
(which I have tried)
I cannot let you go.

In this past week alone
I have thought of you
FaceTiming me more than I have in a long while.
I have not deleted your number off my phone.
I have not unfriended you on Facebook
(though you have been unfollowed)

I have reached out
I have texted
(I will not call because that is an invasion
—toward her. Calling
is sacred.
To be so is face-to-face
interaction, albeit even if it’s
on a phone.)

I am under the impression
that one day you will need me,
and I’m scared I won’t be accessible.
Your number will be on my screen
and I will have no idea who is texting.
You will come to me,
of all people,
and I fear
that I will not be able to make you better.

That I will have somehow
“failed you”
because though I will be there,
I will not,
cannot
make you better.

I’m scared I may not leave,
even after you start healing.

 

SJP

I want to be 
a little bit of sex and a lot of the city;
I want to be
as brass as Samantha, but write like Carrie.
I want to
dress like Charlotte, but have Miranda’s family.
I want to feel as if
everywhere I walk,
regardless of country setting
or mass of taxis
is like bustling about
with the working men and women
of
New York City. 

The Sky’s Alive

The lights in my house 
are flickering now.
Tell me baby,
did you find my pulse?
The lightning strike
illuminates your lips 
on my neck.
The rumbling of 
the thunder sounds,
Tell me honey,
can you find my pulse?
The wind shakes 
my creaking house;
branches scraping shadows
on my windows.
I’m wondering now,
when the power goes out,
in my darkest hour,
will you find my pulse?

This Time Last Year

Tomorrow,
I won’t have to
fish
for breath.

Pull up my
heart
caught in a net;
forged by the silence
of your friends
when I told you
on the phone
to tell them
“hello”. 

Tomorrow
I won’t flop around on a deck
(rather, a couch)
tears streaming down
my face,
my own salt water river
explaining to my
father:
I love you
I love you
I love you.

I loved you.

Tomorrow
I won’t be sitting
with my feet hanging
overboard
telling you
I’m willing 
to give it one more try.
Asking if you prayed
Asking if we were
breaking up—
to get “Yeah”
as reply.

Looking at my clock
reading 2:30AM
August 25th.
Five months before Christmas;
one less gift.

Tomorrow,
I won’t tie myself
down to a dock
(more like a 
“safety raft”)
letting it be the first
to hold me ashore,
telling me what I 
deserve.
Tell me
tell me
tell me—

Tomorrow
I will have
land-legs
on my own.

Contact

I don’t think we talk
about touch enough.
I think we over-promote lust
too much———
too much like a bad thing.

This, talking about bedroom fantasies
caused by looks
shared across a room,
something that in that moment
feels like a colosseum
and suddenly,
you are ready to be eaten by a lion
because something inside
is
licking 
you 
up.

This is
before
touch.

This, the moment
where blood rushes
to cheeks,
and necks,
and ears
and yep,
you’re 
DEFINITELY red.
But it’s okay
because there’s something magical
in the fact
that another
human being
can make
you feel this way.

This,
lover swimming
through crowd
just to kiss
the knuckles on your hand.
This, batting eyes
behind a fan.
This, watching as pheromones
paint the air with color
disguising chemical
until pressure hits you
and you are suddenly
heady.

This —-
endorphins,
serotonin,
oxytocin,
and dopamine’s symphony.
This, the moment
that lovers dream about.
This, the moment
where the catalyst of a look
will meet wave 
of emotion
and it’s either
sink
or spark.

This,
craving to be wrapped around
their body when the
sun comes up,
this is your face
nuzzled against their neck
and them tracing
the length of
you
until oxygen is something
you can’t get enough
of.

(This
might be
lust.)
And that’s okay.

Because when the lines
of your palms meet,
I want you to 
tell me of the streets
you’ll travel,
the moments
of your interlocked
fingers
as you twirl around
drunk in love
on the dancefloor;
tell me how it feels 
to brush your thumb
along the back of your
lover’s hand
and the way your pulse trips
over itself
every time 
they reach out
just to connect with you again.

Tell me that it’s wrong;
that “at first sight” is only part of it,
Spit in their face
when they tell you physicality 
should have nothing
to do with it,

because a pretty face
and an amazing personality
will mean nothing
if their touch
doesn’t make you ripple
with electricity.

This,
the feeling of 
skin
grazing skin,
this,
the new translation
of you and
your 
lover’s language,
revealing your intent,
This,
understanding of
“I love you”
that is unsaid,

This 
is touch.