(Source: notpunxxenough4u, via coldonex)
I don’t want to write it because I hate it.
To fit a square into a circle
Rounded edges buffed and blistered
Like hurt swollen hands on a hot summer day
Hurt swollen hands digging ditches out of pride-flavored clay.
Mellow-minded in light of mind games
Agony at play, but mind so morphed and melted away
It must be your birthday today.
A kiss on the cheek
Your bandages slapdash, but you’re okay.
Rounded edges heal quietly under those bandages’ frays.
But stuck are the strings
Pulling and peeling for worst-of-worst pain
But I thought it was your birthday today.
When a kiss on the cheek’s not enough
A square peg in a round hole beats a boisterous drum roll
It’s a hurt heart on a cold linoleum floor,
It’s a hurt heart pumping blood through scorched holes.
Stolen kisses stifled cigarette buts into broken bones
Blistered holes and open wounds bleed quietly as self-esteem erodes.
Wrote this poem for my gal pal on Valentines day…..
And then I realized it’s too depressing
Your Anti-Valentine’s Day Poem
What do we do when we love?
We cry long rolling sobs at night.
Under covers that once covered two.
Tattooing Revlon mascara on bristly cotton sheets.
We feel the bones of the ribcage spread
For full, fighting lungs.
We breath gusts of air in and jerk them out
Through throaty gulps and snotty saliva.
We look ugly.
We drink red wine to flush our pale faces
To stain our lips crimson
To scar the dullness and the grey of gone
To paint red on every happy and healthy hopeful within 100 miles.
We let bloody tones brush our world with hate
We let our bodies swell, and sweat, and shudder.
We watch happy couples soak up sweat, and swell,
And shudder at the butterflies in their bellies.
And we sulk.
But what’s the sweat and swell without starvation?
We scrape breadcrumbs together to bind empty butterflyless bellies
We keep love in the back of our brains, but it burns us.
We keep love in the back of our brains until it doesn’t.
And one day it won’t.
One day whiteness will wash out the crimson clothes
Ring out the threads of lives that soaked up sorrow
And strengthen us single.
Autopilot
What does it feel like,
To hug something hollow?
To pull it close and feel its surface sink.
And crumple.
To look it over,
To see its shell like pretty paper.
To see the same sight you set your eyes on
Two months ago.
But his eyes aren’t the same.
He doesn’t look at you the way he used to.
He doesn’t feel like him anymore.
He doesn’t hold your hand.
And when you reach for his,
It crumples.
Like a balled up final unit exam.
Scrawled with a big fucking F.
Submitting 20 pages to 4 grad programs. Wish me luck.
The skinny stranger is my date for the night. He treats me like he’s scared of me. He’s using his “stranger voice,” the one he always used on the phone with the pizza man. He talks to me like he talked to the pizza man. He hated calling in pizza. He’s always a nervous wreck with strangers, even over the phone.
He’s a nervous wreck all the night. When The Get Up Kids play “Valentine” he snugs thin fingers in my belt loops and pulls my back into his chest. He rests his head on mine because he’s one head taller. He wraps his arms around my shoulders. I can feel him shaking.
He feels so familiar.
It feels like July 4th when we watched fireworks explode over Albany’s state buildings. Bright stage lights explode on our swaying bodies. We’re having fun. But this isn’t a love story. Its not a Chick Flick, it’s a Lifetime movie. A Soap Opera. Its tragic and wild. I’m too broken and he’s too late. I try to turn my mushy heart into substance again, but it won’t turn. It sits like a cake mold holding unbaked batter. There’s nothing warming me anymore. There’s nothing baking my heart back to good, solid matter. I remain fluid. I keep flowing like plasma, but he wants passion, and blood, and love. I don’t know love anymore. If love is plasma, then I don’t want it. If love is blood, then I don’t have it. I have nothing.
My Pilgrim Soul: I want fried chicken.
What do you do when you love someone? You want him, like you want fried chicken. When you are hungry and when you are bored and when you just feel like chicken. You want to hear his voice, like you want to hear your favorite song, when you are sad or when you are happy or when it’s just too damn…
Growing Pains
I wish I still had it in me. To be ruthless and selfish and young. To make justifications based on faulty foundations of mud and quicksand. To understand the world as flawed and fickle, and to be victimized by its deception at my discretion. Nothing was ever my fault then, but these days…
Everything is.
If you truly felt anxiety you wouldn’t post about it all over the Internet. It would consume you and you would be afraid to talk about it. Quit fighting for attention by bragging about your prescriptions for Xanax you chumps.
