Green-Eyed MonsterI am in awe of you as a child.
I am envious of you with past lovers, even though I am your present.
I despise the thought of you not knowing I existed when I was nine, when I was fourteen and being kissed for the first time, and two months before I met you.
I brag about my past in an attempt to appear less inadequate, because yours is so much bigger than mine, and it makes me angry.
Some part of me breaks knowing you were once happy without me, and the fact that Im a hypocrite does nothing to sooth my heart.
I fucking hate every girl who has ever touched you.
And Im jealous of every photo I wasnt around for.
You Are A Fishsomewhere, a clock is ticking
but my heart doesnt beat in the same, harmonious endlessness, and instead
just manages a lethargic, empty pump right before
my everything gives out
and fades away
somewhere, someone is weeping
for reasons much more deserving than mine
if I was silly like other girls I would make wishes on orbs of fire
that have no ears to hear
instead, Ill just spin a pretty story
somewhere, there is someone speaking much more eloquently
than you could ever manage
I would love to say it doesnt bother me
while I watch blunt words from your mouth chisel away my clear edges
but language is my breath, my air, what I fly in
and you, my dear, are a fish
I suppose it would kill you to say the right thing
White Picket FencesYou never stole my heart
You dont know how to not be a gentleman
Instead you simply removed it and gave me yours
And its pumping a little love song
Inside my chest
Something along the lines of
Be mine forever,
White picket fences
And of course well yell at each other over silly pieces of dust
But Ill love you anyways
(I think its the greatest song in the whole wide
Holes Like I Left The beginning was as unreal as pebbled banks on an overcast day, and a week later when I learned what it was to be alive for the very first time.
(Your skin was sinful, smooth, like the wax on a candle that had never been lit.)
The awkward reality didnt hit me until we sat side by side on your kitchen counter.
The next day I cried to the wind and hunted you. In my transformed state of terror I whimpered, and you patted my nose, unafraid. I was new, still damp from birth and you calmed me like a mother does her child. Everything will be alright.
(I could smell your brokenness on your breath.)
One, two, three. Days went by smooth, like shots of whiskey. But I was still young and it troubled my stomach. I coughed worries into your hair and asked, Are you ready yet?
To which you would always reply no, without ever opening your mouth.
(I hated you. Oh I hated you and I loved you, and I wished I had never decorated you
Excuses for LullabiesDont say youll fix me.
Broken eyes have no right to profess that which they cannot see
clearly, through shattered lenses,
that distort my face and also
Though I would like if you could fix me
such words and hopes are not welcome to souls like mine,
who have already been promised such lovely results
only to find that, in the end, Doctor has
prescribed the wrong medication.
Perhaps these dismal thoughts are too grievous?
some part of my mind will tell another as my pupils burn holes
into stupid cell phones which never ring.
(Though watched phones do not deliver it seems ignored ones are no better.)
Realization and sense proclaim you cant fix me.
and I you, and us the world.
Yet hope, hand in hand with stupidity, finds me here still.
Forever stuck, or so it seems, to this chair which finds itself closer still
and other means of communication which are muted with the fact
Angels Are Forever Three years.
Still, the reminders remain in the ceramic folds of jeweled hummingbirds; forever poised a few delicate inches from their blooming goals. They linger around corners, and hang neatly from the ceiling, silver and pale, illuminating gently. Memorys ghosts are lurking down the hall, under the bed, in the garden, and inside blue-sky eyes that are aching so, so hard; its a wonder they havent broken yet.
Even I, an outsider, sense the chill, unsettling hurt that is surrounding them, and it grabs me in quiet moments, making lazy ice-rivers of my blood. I am sliced down the center with a half that cries when she is alone and a half that scolds, Its not your pain to have. Yet who is to say that loss has selected owners? If she crawls under our covers at night I will not ignore her, regardless of whom she has come to visit. The truth