Paraphrasing Eleanor Roosevelt

There is something beautiful,
something breaking open
at the thought of
my ability to believe
in you
with no questions asked.

There was something so soft
in the way I knew you’d achieve
all your dreams, one day;
even if I wasn’t there to see them.

I pass by tshirts
and posters and trinkets
and everything reminds me
of moments never shared,

and it all is still so
beautiful,
that I am still so soft,
even with my stitching;

your dreams are still attainable,
still reachable,
please believe me.

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Efflorescence

Earth laughs in flowers
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

He pulls lily petals over my head,
out of my skin,
wonders what it’s like to make me blush
rose red.

Lover,
tonight
let’s make our bed out of daisies.

I will bind you
with twigs and
you entangle yourself
around me like ivy
until we are both breathing in bloom.

Lover,
let’s exhale jasmine,
let’s fall heady against petals as
I lose my touch against yours.

I will wake up
to your sunflower mouth,
kissing the yellow light under my chin,
dandelions bursting within.

I want you to become moss and
spread over every inch of me.
You are my true north,
you are firm constant,
rooted tree.

And I will find a way,
to float over your skin
like lily pads
and blossom not only in spring.

You tangle your fingers in my hair,
making garlands from carnation sighs,
and I wonder who prefers cherry blossoms,
when the press of your mouth
flourishes tulips.

Lover,
maybe this moment
is our meadow.
And though spring is not forever,
growth can be eternal.

I want your hands buried in my soil.
I want to grow over your every cell.

 

Buoy

*This is probably the first piece I’ve written that was intended to be slam; enjoy*

To the Boy with the Broken Heart,

I will never love you.

I have spent so much time
caved up inside myself,
carving my own initials into
the bark that lines
the cavity of my chest,
that I have discovered
there is only room in that
chiseled heart for one right now.

I am not sorry.

So many times
we become like bandages,
wrapping ourselves around others’ wounds
and confusing hurt
for love.
We kiss through gauze,
and assume that the coppery taste left in
our mouths
is unalchemated gold.

Rebounds and romance
though both beautifully alliterated
are not synonymous, darling.

If we could only teach these lessons to the
children that still live inside us;
not the ones that aren’t born,
but the ones craving to be mothered
by our under-cared for souls.

Instead, we carry demons on our backs,
feed our ghosts,
and let
sweating
screaming
nightmares
orchestrate twisted lullabies
until we fall asleep on stiff sheets
and soaked pillow cases.

Boy,
we glorify crying here.

We treat scars like badges of honor,
and hearts like grenades,
waiting to make a mosaic out of the shrapnel.

Boy,
we worship agony here.

We put pain upon an altar,
and kiss the sides and palms,
claiming we will save the hurting,
the dying,
and the diseased.

Mother Theresas, please.

Do not take on my hurt,
or I will never learn how to swim back to shore
from these waters.
I am broken, surely,
but I am also my own buoy.

Hope floats, lover.

I quite like my own stitching;
I quite like the words I’m branding against
my pale skin.
Daughter.
Sister.
Friend.

I find that I feel the most
beautiful when
I am happy,
when I am laughing.

I find that there is light in my eyes
when I see beauty;
that the paintings hung on the walls of
the Philadelphia Art Museum are just as
gorgeous as the words
my best friend speaks when she is
reciting poetry.

Boy,
you ought to know,
that your story is not over.

That just because her fingerprints
no longer make
constellations
against your skin,
across your
cheeks or
your lips,
it does not mean that
the sky does not shine as bright
at night
when the moon is barely glowing.

Not all things can be cured with sunshine.

Not all loves can be cured over time.

And truly, we may figure this out for ourselves,
or we may wait,
fine-tuning our windpipes to sound like church bells so
we may come out rejoicing,
instead of mourning,
tears staining and drying like
paint.

There is no weeping here;
our bodies have become temples that hold helium hearts,
and dopamine is now our daily bread.

If you are waiting for your beacon,
well, here it is.
If you are waiting for some sign,
look straight ahead and realize that:

Concerning stitching,
I quite like your seams.

Concerning poetry,
I saw the ink
when you let yourself bleed.

You
are not treading lightly.

As the waves crashed and spilled
upon one another,
in this vast ocean of

crushed hearts and broken dreams,
I looked out across the water and saw that you
had become

your own buoy.

To the Boy Reborn in the Sea,

Hope floats,
lover.

 

 

 

 

I Have Been a Fool for Lesser Things

I once
wrote a piece about how much I wanted him
and in no innocent ways possible.

But with you,
this is not so.

Let me state this now:

This is an open letter to you
with my intentions stated clearly.

I want you to want me.
And I don’t mean just physically.
I mean, crave my company.

Because when I picture us together,
it’s leg stretched out in front,
backs up against a dresser,
bowls of popcorn on laps
and some horror movie I am not prepared for
playing off your laptop.

When I see us in the summer,
it’s me singing very off-key to some pop song blasting
on the radio and you rolling your eyes at me in the passenger seat,
until we get to our destination.

I know you’re easily impressed.
Cape May Zoo it is.

Because I don’t know if you get it:
with you, I’m happy.
Just being in your presence I’m calm
and myself.
I am glued together if only for a few seconds.

Which brings me to our next topic:
I can’t save you, despite
my Savior complex. I hate when guys use it on me,
and I can’t bring back whatever she gave you. But know this:
that even though I barely know you,
I want you to obtain happiness,
whatever way you can fully grasp it,
tightly and tangible in your palms.
And if that means her,
and yes, it does mean her
I will let the shattered pieces sweep up
after I take a few gasps of positivity and
possibilities.

Because, fact of the matter is,
these are all possibilities.
That when you are scared of being eaten alive by whatever
demons you are fighting inside, when you need to escape,
you can always reach for me. And I will take you blindly.
Even when you’re being an ass, which I’m sure is bound to happen,
and I’ll refrain from being a bitch…
[Unless you’re into that sort of thing. ;)]

We don’t have to talk about relationships or even family
(however, I’m wondering what your mom’s name is).
We don’t have to talk about your hobbies, favorite books or bands,
but I do know your favorite candy (concerning chocolate; sugar is something else entirely) or anything at all if you don’t want to expose any of yourself to me.
But don’t expect me to spill out my heartbreak like an opera;
I was never one for “arias”.
(If you get that reference, let’s high five,
preferably with your lips
and my neck.
Oh wait…)

I’m too forward and somewhat conceited. Pushy,
and that’s partially because I can be needy. It’s a flaw in the myriad of things
that make up the list of why sometimes even I can’t stand being around me.
I find innuendos in practically everything and switch topics at the speed of light; ask strange questions pulled directly from the realm of thin air.

This is becoming prose poetry
(WELL THEN)
You have yet to write anything that doesn’t
impress me.
In that aspect,
I wish you would give yourself more credit.

And though we have little to no history, though you barely know me,
there’s a few things I have to clear up that I would more than like:
I want your roommates to like me (because I search for validation like a blind man craves sight and because they are decent people and I like them as an admirer from a very far distance who has a high tendency to be socially awkward because she does this thing where she “speaks in public”)
I want to kiss you again (and boy, do I want to kiss you again, but I will never EVER initiate anything without your consent. On the other hand, if you blindside me—-I won’t protest.),
but more than either of these things,
I want to (if I am ever/even lucky enough to be considered) be your friend.

We didn’t have a beginning,
but I won’t be shocked if there is an end. 

We, The People

Reach and crave for a sense of humanity.

We, the people,

long for the promise that

beyond us,

there is something bigger,

something eternal,

something altering.

We, the people,

desire a change of perspective,

reach out for some sort of connection,

grasp at the hope of a better tomorrow.

We, the people,

delight in the the concept of a cure,

retaliate against negativity,

push for acceptance and security.

We, the people,

blanket the bad,

put to rest the minds of children

who fear a world ruled by terror and bad men.

We, the people,

emerge from our society

by differentiation,

by lighting a burnt out beacon.

We, the people,

petition for love,

for equality,

for an embrace of flaws and fragility.

We, the people,

want to embody

the word that has been ravaged

by a world disillusioned by tragedy:

We, the people,

yearn to be human.

Babe: {Patience}

I’m realizing with you,

I won’t have to try so hard.

That it is possible that somebody will take

my hand, for once.

That they will make time,

and come to me.

It’s no secret that I’m waiting on several things,

so why can’t I wait on you?

Why do I keep putting others in your place?

I am certain you will not belittle me,

and I’m 100% positive you will do your best to respect me,

but do remember to correct me when I’m out of line.

I guess what I’m waiting on most is to be cared for,

for the first time in forever.

To be taken care of,

and made little in the sense that

you will shield me from the cruel outside,

but won’t stop me from experiencing the world.

I’m not asking for presents,

I hope I never have to.

I believe we are both coming into this with expectations,

and me trying to make them into you,

just isn’t happening.

I’m settling.

Talk about downgrading.

I’m sorry that I’ve been trying to play games,

when you and I both know a tease is something inbred and not made.

And I can’t sit here and coyly smile

or flip my hair and pretend I cause their hearts to jump.

We both know

if their hearts are racing,

if their eyes are widening,

I ain’t the one for that.

And I’m okay with that.

Because love, wherever you are?

I’m down for that.

As hard as it is,

I’m waiting on that.

On you.

And all the

late night drives,

pretty sights, and

neon lights that come after that.

The Next Time He Asks Me About Bands

Let me start this off by saying I’m slightly distracted when the boy smiles.

Let me warn my future self I’m probably in for some type of heartache.

Let me remind my future self, he said I’d be bored of him “after two weeks”

But the next time he asks me about what music I like,

I won’t only say KPop.

The next time he asks me,

if there is a next time,

then this is what I’ll say:

PTX and therefore various other types of accapella.

My heart soars with songs like “Bohemian Rhapsody”,

“Carry On My Wayward Son”, and “Come Sail Away”.

It’s predictable and all too cliche.

And though I despise them,

I am a living and breathing one in and of myself.

The next time he asks me about bands

I’ll tell him:

Backstreet Boys

N’Sync

One Direction

Teen Top

SuperJunior.

I have infatuation with boy bands,

and sappy, catchy, yet poorly written rifts.

Don’t get me started on bridges.

The next time he asks me who my top three are:

I’ll tell him Ellie Goulding,

Florence + The Machine

and Ed Sheeran

Because they told me it was okay to struggle

in the relationship.

They told me that love can be destructive,

mighty,

and beautiful in its devastation.

That in the wreck,

that in twisted scraps left over in your heart from when it collapsed in on itself,

from that time when you refused to let it function with a now bare,

a now spare room,

there are antiques to be admired,

and hope that has managed to survive in the rubble.

The next time he names bands that I don’t know,

I will beg him for mixed CDs,

I will acquaint myself with their melodic poetry.

I will learn their words,

their names,

until they are like fingerprints ingrained in my memory;

until they are are pass codes to unlock worlds,

visions,

and emotions that I didn’t know could stir within me.

The next time he stares at me quizzically,

I will gush about my love for all things 80s:

Queen

Billy Joel

ELO

The Cars

Journey

Michael Jackson

and even the one-hit wonders,

because how can he know me without knowing about “Come on, Eileen.”

If he is still standing by me at this point,
I will have no choice but to hug him.

The next time he asks me what’s most recently added to my iPod,

I will have to tell him New Politics

Arctic Monkeys,

MIA,

and Miley.

I am sorry that I lack originality.

I will have to explain that I have a fascination with middle school R&B:

Chris Brown,

Usher,

Ray J,

New Boyz.

But have no idea how to rap,

or what rap I know besides the three verses that are in

“Super Bass”,

“Starships”,

and the scarce lines from “Pound the Alarm”;

all Nicki.

Will he know that I was rocked to sleep by Motown

and woken up by rock anthems in the course of driving between

Florida and the border of South Carolina?

That when I awoke to Twisted Sister, half the time I was singing along.

Classic rock comes on the radio,

and somehow,

I can manage to make out the chorus?
And though I don’t know ACDC well enough,

“Get Loose/ From the Noose”

Is a line worthy of blasting.

When I reveal that I jam hardcore to

“In the Closet”,

and sing like a one-man choir when it comes to

“Man in the Mirror” and

“Will You Be There?”

will his fascination with me finally fade?

Will he want to know about the CDs I have accumulated in the past five months:

Michael Buble,

Ariana Grande,

Katy Perry,

One Direction,

Bastille,

and now: Miley.

I’m debating if I want AM

or Lana del Rey?

I want to listen to Cage the Elephant

and know all the words to “Loser”,

I have never been keen on Nirvana,

but I can sing the classics

(at least the lines I make out).

He says I don’t know him well enough to write poetry.

But the real question is:

will I get the chance to,

after he figures out these musical revelations,

the harmonious reflections

that make up just a quarter of my

intricate,

and dazzling complexity?