i am burning up, afloat on dreams
twisting stories between my fingers
and holding on,
biting the insides of my cheeks
to keep from overflowing.
my head is brimming with warm,
flowery, perfumed air,
all that yellow light behind my eyes,
fading haziness of late-houred
you are singing on windowsills
and your voice is filled with
bursting light like sunrise,
lounging and laughing
with your heart made of secrets,
your eyes are
what longing feels like.
you carry the very violent sadness
of rainstorm-brewed august afternoons
cradled in your defiant hands.
bruised and alone.
we falter below the night sky,
too tired to be stubborn.
we will kiss
the words to each other,
we will un-board our mouths,
exalt in the never-said.
we were not made for these
bizarre and poisoned lives.
20 may 13
just realized that I’ve posted 100 new poems since beginning this blog
^_^ yay milestones awesome
edit: so that means 100 new poems since January 2012!
your lungs do not have the capacity
for such heavy sadness —
the spasms of breath, the thunderstorm
downpour of tears, the gasps and sighs
and loud, ragged anxiety in the darkness —
regain your composure before
the sun rises,
and make sure you don’t suffocate while
if had to pinpoint it, i guess i
started believing in ghosts when i met you.
because your eyes are colored
like the saddest farewell and even when you were
right next to me, my skin ached for you
in heavy sighs and bone-deep pains.
and i thought to myself one morning,
when the air was already thick and warm
with August and the sky was painted grey
like antique silverware,
that one day you were going to make me feel
stars collapsing inside of my lungs.
and i wanted to make sure
when that destined, raw agony began
to spark at the back of my throat
i was not alone.
6 may 13 crl
i watch a lot of ghost movies and deadpan tv comedies, according to my netflix suggestions
i still have scars left over from
when you liked to tear at my skin to
see the things i was made of,
to test how much
was too much.
some nights during a thunderstorm
or a new moon, i can feel
the ghosts of my own screams
ripping through my lungs
and i am startled by my own ability
for surviving. i am startled
by my strength for life.
i still walk around carrying scars
left over from so many years
never knowing my stubborn penchant
for standing up again
after being thrown to the ground.
april 27, crl
your heart is as big as your fist —
a pomegranate, a
tupperware container, a very nearly
my fist if it had three extra fingers.
you are living stardust,
you once pulsated in the same
sky i sometimes cry over
when the night is clear and my soul
maybe you are angrier than
you think you should be,
you walk too slowly, speak
too quickly. your bones
are filled with things you should
but your hummingbird voice, the way
a sigh leaves your lips before
you say hello, your meandering limbs,
your sharp tongue,
ethereal heart, cosmic body
send shivers through my skin,
light my dreams on fire.
have you forgotten
you are a miracle?
april 26, or night music for worried hearts, crl
i guess maybe you should know that i am really bad
at solving riddles and i hate the way your mouth curls
when you are holding back a secret. i try too hard
to be on time and the only dreams i remember
when i wake up are the ones that make me cry.
you said my name like you were in church the first
time we spoke in that messy crowd, that made me wonder
how the future could feel so frightening and
beautiful all at once. i know that you drink coffee twice
a day and you burn your tongue at least three times a week,
always on Tuesday, and my hands are anxious for yours
when we’re on the sidewalk, in your car, on the train,
in my bed. for every hello your arms bring my body
into yours, and when you said goodnight i thought
we would destroy each other.
april 25, crl