Which Hurts Worse

I’m crying
so that only leads
to writing poetry.

That what you want
isn’t necessarily easy.
That having someone
fall out of love with you,
even if you want them to,
is still heartbreaking.

That you know it’s the right thing
and yet,
tears still stream.

So,
you’re hurting again.

Everything,
this year, seems to end
all at once.

And you’re still too scared to run.

To chase after anything
worth having
to make you feel loved,
because you lost
another one.

And, even you’re surprised
that a piece of your heart went
with them.

So you cry
and write the poem.
You don’t say you love
them
’cause it’s not the kind of
love they want.

This time,
if they choose to go,
you’ll let them.

On Days like Today 

Tell her:
I will hold you
until the sun falls out of the sky.
I know your soul
is only comfortable
in the darkness and I am
okay with perpetual night.

I will love you
even if we don’t make light.
I will love you
even if I can’t see the sparks
fly.

I will love you
in the endless blackness
that I’m willing to risk
for just a moment
where your life and mine
combine.

I will love you
openly,
even if it means I can only parade you
under moon shine.

When “The Best” Comes

“It will be something simple like:
we will dance
in the kitchen,
and I’ll be cooking something edible.
And you will hold me from behind
still swaying to the music playing off
of whatever medium it comes through.
And our shoes will be kicked off
and the table will be set
and there will be a vase full of
lily of the valleys or hydrangeas
or peonies
and from the window,
light will stream in.
And I will sit across from you,
we will join hands and
thank God for the food,
for this life,
for everything that aligned 
just the way He wanted it, too.

And Holy Crap, I’m Proud of This

I can’t decide
if I’ve been writing love poems
or anthems for the last
year or so.

And when Pablo was whispering of
my skin like summer
and when William said my lips were like pilgrims
begging to be purged of sin,
I never heard their words in
your voice.

Ed is singing
and I am vibrating
with tears,
with frustration,
anger,
and a little bit of giving up.

Because I can crave lips on my neck,
I can crave your fingers digging into my hips,
my legs on either side,
our hips toasting one another,
and we were never
we may never be

close

enough.

Does not make me any less pure.
Does not make me any less of the girl
I was hours before.
Garden locked;
well-wishing.

Pennies dropped,
over and over.
And I am an anthem author,
I am poem of masochism.

I am bloody mess after murder.
I am heart broker.

I am collector
of tear jars,
firefly eyes,
and steady blood flow.

And I want to smear my love
over you like language:
swallow you in simile,
melt into you like metaphor,
be the alliterated aroma therapy
on your skin,
and simultaneously
you are etching our names
into the backs of our hands,

your scar is my favorite.
You’ve branded my name in
and I am
synonym for love.

And you are synonym for hope.
And I don’t know
if I’ve been writing love poems
or anthems for the last couples of months or so.

But I know
roses are red
and I’ll pledge my allegiance
to you.

Things I Want (You) to Say (to Me)

She’s on it
she’s never on me and that’s
exactly where I’d like her to be.
And I want to strum her body
like guitar strings,
because sometimes she is taut,
but the taste of her is never off-key,
and I wonder what it feels like to drown
out at sea because she pulls me under,
a symptom of her being in control.
I am always under,
her legs on either side of me
and sometimes I find myself searching her body,
the hills and the sloping valleys,
and I want to carve my image across her skin just so
she won’t forget it.
I feel myself crumbling with the absence of her,
like rockslide.
I feel myself like echo off a mountain range when her tongue
reaches its peak, when she speaks my name
and I come rushing down the side
to cause tangles in her hair
that my fingers have willingly knotted
themselves into, spider web
of decadence,
gorgeous girl,
let me speak of your essence,
let me bow in reverence.
Holy temple,
she lets my tongue slide in
and she is tasting sin
and I am tasting forgiveness
and suddenly
I feel the light of saints
and she’s taking all my stains and I
need her to know
I will sacrifice myself over and over again on her altar,
I will let her smear my blood
across each doorway just so
death won’t come knocking and I
fear she will never truly know
what it is to be loved
without being fixed;
she will never see the beauty
in her brokenness and sometimes
I find that I just want to run with this.
I picture her in forest,
after fire,
ashes,
smearing her tiny feet because they have cleared out,
everything that couldn’t be felled.
Don’t let her look for me,
because the minute they lit the tinder,
I jumped up like embers,
leaping
and I found myself falling back to her fire,
not warming,
but consuming me alive.
I have never
in my entire life
craved for licks more.
I want to draw her
and then myself against her,
and we will be making Mona Lisa blush.
We will make the statues
gasp at their nakedness.
We will cause redness to their marble flesh.
I want to write songs and
poems
and verse for her.
I want to hear my scripture
fall likes cascades from her mouth
just so each word can sink into my skin
like her nails
when she claws her name into my back
when I claw mine into her hips.
I want her to never forget this:
that I will always hold on
and I will push through
and I will never make a promise
that I cannot keep,
especially one involving eight letters,
that mixed around pronounce her name as:
“I
Love
You.”

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.