Poems, thoughts, and ramblings.
with your fingers,
you sowed seeds in my skin,
and like that, I became a garden
from which flowers grew
under summer rain.
now, though it is winter,
and I wither, and I sleep,
I know your palms hold safe
the sun which you give
each day to me in silence.
how I would have followed you with quilted roses
to the secret hidden spaces where we lied
under thick blankets of darkness
chilled and frenzied, dreamland of icy fire
how I would have hung your name about the stars
wrapped in willow branches and children’s hymns
swaying sweetly in the sighing breeze of thunder
quiet and crashing, solace in my heart of ire
how I would have found you in the mountains
crouched and creeping daisies in your hair
whispering faerie tales to the dead trees of winter
still and dancing, a tune on lovers’ lyre
how I would have handed you forever
could I just have found the time
slipping past the seconds, and the moments, all the miles
forgotten silken hours, threadbare hanging from the walls of memory
how I could have loved your tameness, had I been not wild and free
I want
to sit by the warmth
of the fire of your soul
to warm my aching bones
in your heat
to sing a song
without words
from my mouth
with no tongue
to touch the sky
of your skin
mapped with constellations
of all the places you’ve gone
to sink into darkness
with weary head
and thumping heart
to forget days
and nights
and space
and motion
all the pittances of life
to cut the thread of time
with the lover’s knife
I read the lines which curved your lips just so
but where I kissed your fresh ink you blurred
into something incomprehensible,
illegible in the same way the passion behind a sigh
can only be felt, and not recorded.
I turned the pages of your skin and read the stories you told,
kept pace with the way you twisted and turned
under my eager hands, prying eyes,
spread your wings open until I could see your waiting spine.
I pressed the sharpness of your corners against the
softness of my chest and breathed in the smell of you,
like a memory I’d kill to touch just one more time,
something so almost-real, I could taste it.
I felt your weight in my hands,
read your over-simplified summary as though it could ever
contain the vastness of you and the secrets
you might tell if I opened you up and opened myself up
and tried to feel it.
saying that there is love out there for everyone, is like saying that every star is a part of a constellation
when the truth is that some of us were just born, ignited, without close proximity to anyone who could see us shining.
and don’t you dare tell me that every cloud has a silver lining, because I’ve looked at the sun until it hurt my eyes, and blinded me for days,
and yet still, I could cry, and it didn’t matter that there wasn’t any rain.
don’t you tell me that things get better with time because I’ve counted the sand in my hourglass,
time after time, 30 minute intervals turned to days and turned to weeks and months,
just turning it over and over to see how much it took.
but when I sat it back on the shelf and resumed my place in line,
turned out that nothing was different and the hurts were still mine.
I gave not from my heart, for she had nothing left of note.
I gave only from my body, and in my sensible head I hoped.
I built you up from grains of sand, gave light that you were better man.
in dreaming, and in passing,
in mourning, and in loss,
I gave you up for something more,
yet now our paths no longer cross.
If mystics could have told me,
Whispered doom into my ears,
I cannot promise on our love
that we would still be here.
I wish I’d had the kind of childhood in which
finding out Santa wasn’t real and that my parents were the tooth fairy
were the biggest lies I ever heard,
& in which happily ever after never turned into
such a disaster
but simply faded into modernity & bland happiness.
I wish I’d never read a love story,
or seen my father through a glass wall with high ceilings
on the inside & the out.
I wish I’d never had cause to wonder if you smile the same at her
as you do at me,
and I wish that I could feel like I’ve ever deserved security.
I wish I’d done something, anything to deserve
the lies you’ve fed me.
I wish I’d never felt like the world’s worst mock-up,
a draft, unfinished,
drowning in the backwash of my own empty cup.
I wish I’d never, ever, ever,
never ever
grown up.
much like the stars we’ve dreamt of
and so fiercely loved beneath,
I fear that you will not see my light
until I am
long
past
gone.
that by the time you find yourself
searching for me,
there will be naught left to find
but dust and useless dreaming.
in almost perfect stillness,
your sleeping breast rises and falls,
so slightly, so secretly.
those breaths you share
only with the sheets and me.
I wonder, as you sleep so sound,
and I lie restless in our bed,
what dreams are yours?
is it me that you see,
the lights in my eyes,
the sound of my breath?
or is it the bright of the city,
the call of something bigger?
I fear I am too small,
too insubstantial to know.
and so I wonder,
and so you sleep…
you love me because I am “strong”,
but what if I am not?
what if I am weak and fragile,
in need of tender hands,
and precisely comforting words?
what if I am already falling apart,
struggling to remain upright,
desperate for an ounce of stability?
what if I am destined to fail,
regardless of eager “trying” and
countless tears of exhaustion?
will you love me, still,
even as I crumble in your hands
like yesterdays past,
or will you desert me?
will you leave me in dismay,
a broken pillar of strength,
a forgotten bastion of hope long past?
I have stood alone all this time,
and I want to believe you are better than most,
but this darkness has it’s hold and I am
no better, no stronger or sturdier
than the roses of winter.
iamwhatshewrote 
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