I’m so HONORED. thank you so much!
Salt and sweat and skin-
this is your body and
you were never kind to it,
smudging the blurred curves
of flesh, desperate to make
ripping at loose ends that unraveled
in your claws, so determined to
keep it all inside-
all your secrets and dreams,
the aching desires that have
drilled into the marrow,
that keep you up at night
when your bed is too cold.
No, you never cared for your body,
tearing into it to feel something
other than disgust,
smiling as you watched your stomach vanish,
smiling as your bones pushed out
against your skin,
smiling with lipstick-stained teeth
because you tried to swallow beauty
when you wouldn’t eat anything else;
you wanted something to
consume and destroy you.
You turned your body into a battleground
in a war you could never win;
the blood in your mouth is your own,
the scars carved into soft flesh
are of your own design.
All you ever wanted was control,
to master the demons that burrowed
into your brain and whispered
sweetly into your ear.
You controlled your own destruction,
and you’re not smiling anymore.
Does the body forgive?
Not creepy at all. Thank you so much!
The phone rings,
and you answer
with a shaking hand
because you want to
turn the static between
two lines into a miracle,
you want him to breathe
somethings akin to hope
He won’t, you know.
Any hope he’s
saving for himself
because it was never
his job to fix you.
He didn’t have the tools for it;
his hands were soft and unsteady.
You want salvation,
I won’t fault you for that.
And maybe the burden on
your shoulders has grown
too heavy for you alone,
but tell me you don’t feel like
you’re drowning in the white
noise on the other line,
tell me it’s not ripping you open,
spilling your guts on the floor.
The phone rings;
keep walking out
But sometimes I wish. That maybe I could be a little taller. So I could hug you properly. When you’re sad. And warm your hands. When you’re cold. But there is happiness there. When you tease me for being so small. And in the little efforts it takes. To open the lid when I make you coffee. And reach up high to hang up the laundry. But when you hold me when I’m sad and blow my hands warm. I can’t help but think. It’d be nice. If I could be a little taller.
This is so lovely, but I don’t know exactly why you sent it to me? But yes, this is just so pretty and nice.
Sorry, I obviously, need to look at your blog more carefully, but I meant your open letter about our generation. Everything of yours is brilliantly spoken, but something about that one really did something for me.
You’re so lovely and kind, thank you! I’m just so happy that so many people feel this way.
I woke up this morning
and none of this made sense:
the way my hands were still
searching for you,
the way these ripped sheets
swallowed me whole.
And I know you left
to find something more
than a handful of poems
and a mouthful of I-love-yous
that always tasted sour on my tongue,
that spilled from my lips
because I wanted to be in love,
I wanted to feel more human,
like my skin actually fit around my bones,
as if this ache in my sternum
could be fixed by your calloused hands
that never understood that they were
digging into ice that would never melt,
no matter how many times
they pulled at my flesh,
ripped me apart,
stitched me together again.
And I know you left
because I was too heavy
of a burden,
because I tried to find a savior
in the body of a boy with a hungry mouth
who didn’t understand fractured things.
I’m sorry I thought you
could carry this weight
on your shoulders;
I’m sorry this bed is
This makes me so happy to read! Thank you so much!
Okay, I know I haven’t posted in forever, but I’ve been at Spring Invitational for my college, and it’s been exhausting. I promise I’ll have something posted tomorrow!