I Need No Gladiator; My Mouth is a Colosseum

At this point
in my life,
I realize that
those who care
never stop fighting.

That if you had some
type of cancer,
they’d destroy every
toxic cell in your body
until you were cleansed,
flooded with remission.

They wouldn’t be the cancer themselves.
the toxins,
the poisons;
they wouldn’t watch your body collapsing in on itself
without trying one last time to hold you
up.

But,
sweetheart,
you should know by now,
their shoulders will never be
strong enough
to bear your weight,
to resist
your flames.

There are gods of wrath,
but there also
avenging angels.

Never, Never Mine

You
fog in the middle of the highway;
warm autumn days turned to cool nights.
I am cloaked in you before I even realize
there’s some sort of mass I am splitting.

You
echo of a motorcycle
separating life from death,
light from dark;
revving down route 49,
leaving my ears ringing.

You
empty strip mall,
closed bar.
Lit up but only for the sake of others
so that they may know
there is a metropolis here,
but not really a home.

You,
hoped for lover.

You,
highway haunter.

You,
static radio.

You,
never, never mine.

Fog

I’m sorry
you didn’t wait for the rain
this time.

I hope her hair falls just as easily through
your fingers and that she pulls away
and means it.

I hope you find it in your heart
to prepare a room for her.

I hope you were
wrapped up in fog
and her
and that she tasted like the earth
and some sort of
necessary rebirth.

I’m sorry
you didn’t wait for the rain
this time.

But then again,
I wasn’t in your life long enough
for you to think
you ever needed to be
cleansed
from me.

Many a Muse

Realize,
love,
that you are not
creator,
but rather contributor,
to this masterpiece.

That I am an not
an artwork untouched,
but rather
formed by many brush strokes,
and molded by many hands.

I am aesthetic aspiration.
Formed by both passion
and lust,
knowing they are not the same thing,
and yet not withering.

I am a communal conception.
I am made fantastic in their imagination.
An ideal,
an offense
and sometimes I don’t know which I prefer
most.

I have a patchwork heart;
a comforter which you may not
want to lay upon,
stitched together from the moments
I have given away bits of it
to those who only use needles to
prick.

But
if you can accept this,
I’ll start mixing the paint.

I remain quiet,
an unhung work,
and wait for your stylistic addition.

Just because something
was started by someone,
doesn’t mean you
can’t be the one to finish it.

Avant

Sent in some of my poetry to my university’s lit mag. Cross your fingers guys!
(Specifically, “Response”, “Hell, Heaven &Holding Places” & “To the Girl Who Wakes Up to An Empty Mattress”; plus two longer literary sexts)

*And on that note, I owe you guys another round of Literary Sexts I’ve written and collected; school’s been hectic and so has work so bear with me*

Thanks for sticking with me through it all,

Gabby

For Phil

This is not a love poem.

This is the moment
where I reveal I want to be a
bassinet for your pain.

The moment I take you in my arms
and cradle your shake.

This is the nursery we will stand in
while the earth quakes.

This is the moment,
where I watch the floorboards split in half,
but the rocking chair refuses to break.

This is where I reveal to you
that I am man-made
hurricane.

This is the moment
where winds rip like tornado,
sucking up your breath like you are lake.

This is the moment
where I reveal my heart
and you say it’s not a mistake.

This is the moment
where something of us is born;
where your tremors line up
with my open my stitches
and between these malignancies
we somehow create.

And this,
this is not a love poem.

But when the eye seems far away,
and when everyone else is closing in,
I will holding you like lightning,
drown them in thunder,
and hope you know,
this hand of mine,
is always yours to take

Hot Box

I am coming to you
like you are a
panic room.

Like I’m hiding myself
from the reality
of a situation that started
based off lust,
on both our parts.

And I don’t want to think
of even the possibility
that we could grow to
learn to love each other,
to,
possibly,
love each other;
to be:
together.

Because men like you
do not get together with
girls like me.
Do not end up loving
girls like me.
Men like you,
continue doing
what we’ve been doing,
and girls like me,
continue questioning:
why the dark?
why only in your car?
what for?

Because I am
the type of girl
that wants to meet your family,
I am the type of girl who would stop kissing you
to play a game of Monopoly.
I am the type of girl
who will give you compass kisses
to show you that she’s caring.

And you are the type of man,
who isn’t entirely ready
to give up being a
boy.

Who gets scared
when girls no longer
seem to be a
toy.
Men like you
get out because they equivalate
“single” with “joy”
and “commitment” with “misery”.
Men like you
wade in the shallow end,
and hope girls don’t see you
as buoyancy.

Because when we are
turning your car windows foggy,
it is not because we will leave the car
with me as your girl
and you as my prince charming.

You drop me off,
kiss me twice,
and wait until I set up a date
again.
Some type of gathering
which involves food,
random conversations,
and some form of a dark room.

A panic room.

Because while I am reminding myself
girls like me, do not want “boys”;
I am simultaneously wondering
why you held me gently,
did not take advantage of me,
why when thinking of you today,
my heart might’ve skipped a beat,
I’m wondering why,
why,
for the first time,
with you,
I don’t feel like a toy.