if I died today
my love
unexpressed
would bloom
from my chest
and sow seeds
of a thousand
new worlds
and in them
we are whole
together
hand in hand
the red string
that binds us
twisting between
stars and planets
our soles have
never trod
we wander in
unknowing
of the little Love
which bid us
grow
Category: Poetry
home.
any house could be a home,
they said, but
you made me believe it.
all my other tenants,
“ah but the windows don’t catch the
evening light the way i like it,”
“the floorboards creak and
cry in protest when i walk,
“don’t you just wish the walls
were painted some lovely color?”
you waltzed into the front door,
drew back the curtains,
peeked beneath the soft carpets,
ran gentle fingers over dusty walls,
“what a beautiful home,
might i stay?”
tired.
if my weary bones could rest,
they would sink deep,
deep into the soil where
my young feet ran barefoot,
quiet in the moisture of the
earth, the cool weight
of moss and leaves and
heavy nighttime air.
if a place existed for me,
a home to beckon me return,
it would be in the deep
woods and the still lakes,
sunshine dancing in green
patterns, a song sighing
with the wind.
conversation.
you speak my body’s language,
as fluently as though it were your mother tongue.
you hear my body whisper, muffled under blankets and hidden by my clothes.
sometimes, in the dark, you sing me songs and my skin dances to the sound.
sighing, softly, “I love you.”
and then we dream, and even in the silence, our bodies speak.
drought.
you taste like magic;
like electric tendrils
snaking through my tongue
to converge in the tips
of my fingers where they touch
your waiting skin
in a frenzy of sound and
sensation
the smell of your breathing
like the burning of oxygen
in my lungs.
we could burn the night sky
alive
if we could just
live inside the thunder
and the clouds.
we could hide from the sun
and all her expectations
in the eye of the storm,
in the quiet calm before
destruction,
when everything must be
rebuilt,
and the floods leave the
dry earth
wanting more.
cicada song.
who writes the songs
the cicadas
sing?
I, too, want to scream
in the
forest.
for the night it
feels so
big,
and the trees have
their arms
out;
but mine are just
waiting for
morning.
update.
Things are different now. Things feel different, I feel different. Unrecognizable. Maybe it’s because I’m older, but the words don’t seem to flow to paper the way they used to. I feel like I lose them somewhere along their way through my fingers. It’s been 5 years since I last published anything here and honestly probably almost that long since I wrote anything meaningful in the first place. A lot has happened in those 5 years – some things are exponentially better, and some exponentially worse. I need to write about it, need an outlet, need to unburden myself in ways that don’t just transfer it to someone else. I’m going to start writing again, and maybe what I do write will find it’s way back here to my tiny, abandoned corner of the internet. We’ll see. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with putting a message in a bottle.
pollen.
how much I want,
most days,
to find a safe hole
to crawl into.
find a comfortable
position
and stay there until
the snow traps me in
and I awake in the Spring
reborn, unfurling,
like a flower whose
existence has only
quiet, graceful joy
to offer.
little house.
what am I?
but that which is made
of parts, and parts,
and parts,
which even in a whole
cannot define for itself
the space it occupies,
nor purpose therein.
assembled as
may be the plans,
which laid down the
architecture of my soul,
I could not scale the walls,
but only dream of floors
and the vague idea
of ceilings.
structure of wit, and
senseless being,
of lofty thoughts and
unmet ideals.
the foundation
did crumble upon itself
and somehow
sustain throughout wreckage,
the silhouette of home,
undefined and wavering,
through flood and
assaulting winds.
inside.
I want to be a singing ghost inside your whispered dream,
unremembered and unrepentant in the bright light of morning.
I want to be a sighing monster in your darkened closet,
rustling through old clothes and old memories you’ve packed silent.
I want to be a reflection in your fogging bathroom mirror,
where you write a message in the water and wait for a response,
I want to be the closing statement to your last eulogy,
the final sentiment imparted upon the world you’ve loved.
I want to be the opening to your always, always closing,
I don’t want to be the thing you left behind.
iamwhatshewrote 
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