Not Sorry Too late, I’m thinking back on today when I lied. I’m uncomfortable with the lie in my mouth. But you asked what I couldn’t say, a secret I’m not ready to give. I’m sorry I lied, but it’s too late, too late to take it back; I wouldn’t anyway.
Mine A ghost came to the house last night, awakened by the full moon’s glow. Shadows twisted in the curtains and bones scratched the window. Floors creaked and rafters moaned and doors slammed in the halls. Windows shook and rattled while shrieks echoed though the walls. One howl sounded through the night sending shivers up … Continue reading Poetry Friday: Mine
*trigger warning* Reason$ to Live The old feelings return and my concentrated suffering could kill every light in the city. I can’t even trust the emptiness to stay; abandons me faster than hope and leaves me numb. I can’t even complain because I’ve been worse. Perspective. It’s cheaper to hide than to act; blood flows … Continue reading Poetry Friday: Reason$ to Live
Just read this please. Be kind to yourself and read this.
Sometimes I look at the scattered marbles strewn across my mind and think to myself, “Who could love something so disassembled, something so broken?”
In this society, we are taught that the worst thing for a lover to be is “crazy,” and that being “crazy” makes us deserving of our loneliness and our longing.
To be “crazy” is to be unworthy, to be unwanted.
Confession: Sometimes I want to run away. Sometimes, even after getting married and even after a thousand “I love you, I need you, I want you’s” – written, spoken, texted, felt – I fantasize about taking the train as far away as I can go, up the coast where no one can find me.
Sometimes in our desperation, we isolate ourselves, fearful of what it means to be seen, to be visible, to be known.
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I'm writing this late at night which is usually a bad idea, since my thoughts can be so disjointed and my writing tends to get pretty wonky. But I want to say something: Lately I feel like I've been carried out of a really terrible trial, and my heart is slowly opening up to let in … Continue reading You’re Not a Sad Story
The Dreaming Boy The earth, it speaks of the dreaming boy; the trees, they echo his name. The brilliant sun in the summer sky remembers the day he came. His steps, they fell on the cobbled path in a steadily crooked beat, with a white dove in his outstretched hand and gold soles beneath his … Continue reading Poetry Friday: The Dreaming Boy
Fierce Love Black clouds blanket the sunset and warm winds tug me home. My evening walk is followed by thunder, the smell of rain breezing in through windows thrown open for airflow. You see, two scents melt my defenses: one is rain, the other you. Rain heals the earth tonight, battering the rooftops and spattering … Continue reading Poetry Friday: Fierce Love