You've Endured So Many Storms That You Became OneYou have endured so many storms that you became one.Your mother was a tsunami.Her emotions came in wavesand crashed down on you like“this is all your fault”.Her high-tide flooded your basement.There’s water damage in your roots.She taught you how to swim when you were five years old,but somehow you’ve been drowning for seventeen years.You once told me that you hid all the knives in your houseso that the waves wouldn’t carry them away.Your father was a thunderstorm.His voice shook your house so much,I could have almost sworn that you lived by train tracks.His thought cloudsgenerated enough electricity to light up your neighborhood.When his lightning cracked you’d count“one Mississippitwo Mississippi”to see how far away his hand was from your facebefore the friction in his bones was too much for him to bear.You have endured so many storms that you became one.You are an earthquake,and my heart is your San Andreas Fault
Fireflies Don't Leave Burn MarksCertain boys used to press their fingertips into my skin as if they were cigarette butts and I was an ashtray. They stamped out their left over guilt that wouldn’t burn away and grounded it into my skin so that when it rains, I smell smoke and their brand of cologne. I have burn marks on the insides of my palms from when they held my hands with bonfires between theirs. I have scars on the inside of my mouth from where they left their candles burning as if I was a faulty altar. They picked flowers from every garden my body grew and left them at the feet of some makeshift effigy as if they had given me a gift. I have let people ruin me. They burned me to the ground like Rome and called my ashes beautiful ruins.“I have scars on my hands from touching certain people”. But you told me that you don’t really like Salinger all that much even though you talk like Holden Caulfield. When I think about you, I don’t feel cigarette burns on my skin or smoke being
Muscle MemorySix Word Story:Loving you has become muscle memory.(hz)
AcceptanceI spent years loving a memory because I was afraid to call it that.
ReleaseIn letting you go, I grew wings.
Learning to ForgiveI finally learnedhow to forgive myself.That in itselfis poetry.(hz)
Winter's HopeMy grandmother told methat my mother named me “Winter”because she didn’t really love me.And when people heard my name they’d shiveras if snow had been pressed into the skin of their backboneand they’d taste bitterness and coffee groundswhen they held it in their mouth too long.So my name become volatile.It became foreignand always sounded like “sorry”when it rolled off of other peoples tongues.I spent years of my lifenameless.My grandmother told me that my mother named me“Winter”because nobody loves it either.But my mother told methat she named me“Winter Hope”Because it translates into“Spring”.She told me that I heldbeginning and endswithin my name andnurtured life whenever I spoke it;there are flowers blooming from my taste budsand vines tangled through the gaps in my teeth.I am no longer afraid of the sound of my own name.
AnxietyWhen I was four I decided that I wanted to be an astronaut.My grandfather died when I was five and I didn’t know what death meant yet,so I sat on my mother’s lap on the front porch while she explained to methat death was just another word for the way that the seasons move.I pictured my grandfather at church like on Sunday mornings.He hugged me and said “goodbye” and it didn’t feel like I was losing him.He didn’t say goodbye at the funeral.The drunk driver never said “sorry” to my grandmother.I stood in my green dress and waited for that word for twelve years.On the drive home from the funeralI just kept thinking “forever and ever and ever and ever”until I stopped breathing and started falling.When I was four I wanted to be an astronaut.When I was five I got vertigo from jumping rope on the pavement.I pulled out my hair when I went to kindergartenI sat alone on the playgroundbecause I was too afraid to talk to a
The Ocean InbetweenI’ve been told that “if you’re not losing friendsthen you’re not growing up.”I had blue hair when we first met.You told me that it looked like the ocean.It had slowly turned a faded sea foam greenby the time we became friends. I spent more time growing upin your house than my ownand you spent more time with my dad than yours.Everyone thought we were sisters. They called us by each other’s namesand we had the same eye color; like the pacific after a storm.Together, we were a million miles above sea level.On the first day of high school you told me about a dream you’d had.You said you felt sand between your toesand the ocean at your ankles.Then you met him.A typhoon and a monsoonhad met together in your rib cage and decided to dance;Katrina and sandy two stepping,slamming beats into your bonesYou told me that you loved him.I didn’t know how to tell youthat you were New Orleansand he was a rising sea level.Sophomore ye
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
love poem from a pillar of saltthe words 'i love you'have always tasted like forbidden fruitan apple offered by a helpful serpent-sweet and fleeting butthe words 'i loved you'just taste offinality.i always thought that leaving you would be like leaving gomorrahthat i couldn't help looking backand when i did i'd feel an ocean dry itself beneath my skinbut this is so much quieterand so much worse.my knuckles taste of blood,not salt.there is no new testament herejust old testament firejust lot's wife standing on a forgotten hillrocksalt freezing her outstretched handswatching her hometown burn below her.there is no forgiveness herejust mutual lonelinessjust a lost religion and a broken girlfar too tired to play pretendwatching you fall apart behind me.
His BallerinaA gown of silk, flowing as a stream,Her footsteps so gentle, perhaps she was a dream,As he crouches near bushes to glare at the unseen,And she danced like ballerina.Her fingers combed her golden hair,A perfect lady who didn't careTo see the man that would never dareTo touch a ballerina.But desire grew, and patience died,As a lovely girl danced before his eyes,So he buried his heart, pulled out a knife,And tickled the ballerina.She fought his hands, in fear of death,A dirty blade sinking through her chest,For he would never settle for something less,As she screamed,She cried,She took her final breath...And the wind grew calm, barely blowing on the stream.Her voice so quiet (perhaps it was a dream).As he closes his eyes, cradling his queen...His beautiful ballerina.
Maybe.Fist fights and battles in my headI'll always remember what you said...The day you lied.Glass shattered all over the dirtI'll always remember your last words...The day you died.I could have saved you, love.I should have saved you, love.I would have saved you, love...Then maybe we could both still beAlive.
A Need for Hope AllenxReaderMy fist clenched together. Why. Why did it have to be this way? If I had gone with Allen and Lenalee would I have been able to change the results for both Suman and Allen?I rested my forehead against my knees as I tucked them in, making myself disappear into the corner of the room. My chin started to tremble uncontrollably, and I bit it trying to stop. I wouldn't let myself cry. But my shoulders had already started shaking and tears blurred my vision.I hugged myself tightly as I tried to blend in with the darkness of the room. Memories of the news flooding into my mind even if I didn't want them.- Lavi and Lenalee descended from Lavis innocence grim looks on their faces. I looked at them, the desperate hope in my eyes vanishing when I looked at Lenalee. "No." I whispered in horror. "No, i-it can't be!"Lavi nodded sadly to me, and I'm sure Lenalee and I mirrored each other. A prick of sadness hit my chest when I realized what Lenalee must be thinking. I looked at her bu
Mama's EyesShe said to her daughter,"Goodnight."And her little girlNo longer littleLooked up in her mama's eyes,And said,"Goodbye."And Mama thought nothing of it,Till her little girlNo longer littleNever looked up in her mama's eyesAgain.
the words do not come.i am told to writefrom my heart, but i cannotfind it in my chest.
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
unchainedi have seen sunrisesbloody and feral.i have walkedinto thewind.
Six lessons on love.One. Sometimes love will move so slowlyyou will stop waiting for its arrival. You will become anopen bar and you will be drained and drained until oneday you open the door to let last night out and love hasleft a calling card on the doormat.Be patient. Let love come to you piece by pieceuntil you are full to the brim with it.Two. Some days it will feellike love has come for you with a wildfireat its heels. Let it come; you weremeant to burn brighter than any sun orstar we care to name.Three. Growing back after burning downis a sign to leave old loves behind. Let themgo kindly. Wrap them up in tissue paper andribbon and give them a kiss goodbye. Be gentle butfirm.Do not use maybe. Do not look back.Four. Love can hurt and you will let itbecause you are in love. It will spit venom andthrow fists until you stand up and throwsomething back.Be strong, letting love go is notweakness.Five. Love will sometimes be too much.It will let y
lessons in losingyour hair still lingersin the holes of my sweater--i do not miss you.
if you want to stop hurting:i. i have swallowed down this 3am lovelike the ibuprofen i fed myself for myswollen ankle that time in spainwhen i pushed a little too hard andlet go for a little too long.i have swallowed you down so manytimes before, kept you like little embersin the crevices of my chest, burningholes through tissue and bone andeverything that i am - through everythingthat i swore i wasn't.ii. a few months ago,i learnt that it's easier to breathewith your throat open, to take itdown and let go gracefully,like opening your palms againstthe wind outside the car and inhalingthrough your nose.iii. if you want to stop hurting:listen to them speak but do not hear their words, hear only their voice,feel it reverberate against your spine and tell yourself -this isn't a bad thing.rebuild your body like jenga blocks. if somebody comes close,hold their hand and tell them -i trust you.let the air rush between your fingers,let the fire in your arteries sizzle aw
twenty-fiveripped up the dirtfrom the earthand called it home( six feet under's where i belong )
my bones awashed on the shorejonah was a man made up ofsalt and stone and piecesof driftwood he found carved withhearts and letters of teenage boys'and girls' names. he wasmore than his chicken leg bones andsagging skin, and the neighborhoodkids thought he was theghost of ol' samson, but he was justninety-eight and pushing it.jonah was a man who likedto wear his mother's curtains as clothesand used moth-eaten tableclothsas blankets during the chilly nights.he had this kind of gleam in hisold, dull gray eyes. he thought he'dbuild himself a boat andset it on the ocean and maybe he wouldfind someone out there.jonah didn't quite know who he was, yet.the neighborhood wives thatbrought him home-cooked dishes in bigpans to eat always told himthat he was no longer sane.but jonah said that sometimessanity had less to do with the mind andmore to do with the people.and on a warm tuesday,he draped his mother's old tableclotharound his shoulders and bundled up in a curtain, left h
Guide MeThe shadows of my past, like trembling fingers, strum the song of warfare with my heartstrings and piano-key-ribs.The ghosts of empty faces, empty shells, waltz to the tune of my miseries.The war raging inside my head, like the waves of an ocean crashing against the sides of skull, cause me to drown in insecurities so deep within my tired vessel.I am tired of this warfare.I am tired of playing the role of some valiant soldier.I am dimming under the power of the shadows, of the ghosts, of the war inside me –And my only beacon is you, dear mother.When the fire rages on, and the music is gone, I will always look to you for guidance – and you will guide me to safety, always ending the war within me.
9 Word GoodbyeIn my headI still have conversations with you