I read a poem
the other day

about how
our liver
replaces itself
after 5 months,

our lungs
after 3 weeks

and our skin
after 27 days

I laughed
about how
absurd such
facts were

because it has been 7 months

and I can still feel
your presence in my body
your kisses on my hips
and your breath on my neck

and trust me
I tried to kill as many cells
as I could
after you left

to try to get you
the fuck out of
my veins

I poisoned my liver
nearly every day
with cheap alcohol

and smoked so many cigarettes
I heard my lungs begging me
to stop the other night

and I let too many boys

undress me
and touch my skin
with their dirty dirty hands

simply because
I hoped their presence
would force your ghost

to get
out of my bed
out of my life
and out of my mind

but still
I can hear the echoes
of your footsteps
as you are running
in my brain

and it is driving
me insane

because when I was 7 years old
my father took me fishing
and made me promise

I’d never let anyone
get under my skin

yet here I am
13 years later

destroying myself
to try to forget

how you destroyed me
after telling me for a year
how much you loved me

and I can’t help but imagine
how horrified my father
would be

to see his baby girl
killing herself slowly

but what he could not understand
is that if I drink too much
or smoke too much

it is only to stop your ghost
from growing and growing

like the cancer
that
took
him
away.

—  Exorcism flavoured whiskey, goldenkintsugi
I know I blocked your number
and deleted our texts
but I also know that you’ve been
meeting girls that are making
you forget about me.
I know that we haven’t been in love
since March, before I tore
myself apart and tried to close
the wounds with his touch.
I know that you hated how
I always tasted of liquor
and pressed cigarettes against
my lips more often than you.
Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry
that I never laughed at your jokes
and I’m sorry that some days
the world was too dark for me
to see what was right in front of me.
I’m sorry I pushed you away
and then begged you to stay.
I’m sorry that I never meant
to be this way.
—  How Many More Apologies Do I Have To Write Before You Come Back? // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
There is this connection,
this sort of sudden attachment you feel
towards one’s soul
when you look at them
and think to yourself,
“You.
It is you.”
Somehow,
you just automatically feel it
from every hair on your arms
down to every bone in your body
and the crevices of your heart.
There is just this unexplainable captivation
that lures you in
and you don’t know what it is
but it draws a perplex map
with unknown destinations
you feel the need to explore.
— 

A Story A Day #210 by M.D.L

I am so sick of
falling in love and
falling down just to
fall out of it.
I am so sick and tired of
being so tired
all of the time,
missing you,
and wishing you
didn’t
hurt me
the way you did.
I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick
but I’ve already taken
too many sick days
to try and fix it.
I just can’t believe that you
did this.

I don’t think I’ll ever be able to
Be “just friends” with you.

We spent countless nights
Watching the dark blue sky turn orange
As we confessed our deepest secrets
And shared bits and pieces of our souls.

I don’t know that I could ever convert back
To small talk about the weather
When I know that you wish the rain
Would wash you down the gutters too.

I listened to you talk about which monsters
Walked from under your bed
Right into the daylight,
And kissed away the pain the shadows brought.

I don’t know if I could walk next to you
Without trying to grab your hand
And lead you away when we pass
Those same monsters on the street.

You were my safe haven to fall back on,
And I hid all of the hurt you felt
In my skin and soul
To take away your pain.

To me you will always be
The one,
And I can’t go back to being
Just another person to you.

—  Transformation // -STG (inksplatteredpages)
I can’t even begin to explain what it’s like. He was everything. He was it for me. And I was young and naive and I thought that maybe in this fucking world of strangers I had found the guy who felt the same. Who would make all the stars align in my god damn fairytale sky. And I was wrong. I was more than wrong. I was fucking fooled into believing this man this fraud this fucking heart wrencher had the key to my heart in his hands and wouldn’t let it go. And of course I was wrong. Of course I wasn’t the only key in his god damn hand I was only one unlocked door in his sea of opened god damn doors. So there’s your god damn morality. There’s your fucking lesson. Don’t ever let him open the door because if you do my god you’re done. You’re just done.
—  I wanted it to be him.
When you see her again, love will fly back
into your hands. You will forget about all
the endless weeks of imagining your fingertips
on her skin. You will forget about all the awful
withdrawals you experienced from not being able
to feel her lips against your own. You will once
again be able to look into the eyes of a woman
who knows you better than you know yourself.
Enjoy her. Feel her heart beat beautifully against
your fingertips. Indulge in the feelings she has saved
just for you. Nestled carefully into the curves of
her body, waiting for you to come home.
—  "When You See Her Again" by Radha Kistler {radhakistler.com}
We sat outside the 7-Eleven
smoking cigarettes until we
couldn’t breathe in anything
but each other. We were not
in love. You held my hand the
whole walk home. We were
not in love. We sat by the lake
and drank beer we hated the
taste of. We were not in love.
We sat in the backseat of your
beat up car and kissed until
two in the morning. We were
not in love. We drank vodka
until our throats burned and
we fell asleep next to each
other until the sun shone
through your apartment
window. We were not in love.
We spent the May nights
pulling off our clothes and
breathing each other in.
You kissed me like I was yours.
I told you that I should be.
We were not in love.
We were not in love.
We were not in love.
—  I Have To Keep Reminding Myself // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
Who is that pretty girl
clad in mascara
with her eyes looking down
upon whoever approaches?
Who is that girl?
Why does she look so familiar
when her eyes are out of focus?
That mane of long brown hair looks like
it would taste soft on my skin
For some reason
I feel she wouldn’t even
ask me to come in.
For some reason
unbeknown to me,
she smiles such a slight smile
that later,
she could deny that you’d seen
Why are there bruises on her arms?
That cold stare makes me wonder if
her chest holds a heart
Makes me wonder if
she knows
she looks like art
Not art, too generic
A human masterpiece
She looks like a tragedy
But more like blasphemy:
god-like, and it comes so naturally
She looks like catastrophe,
like a windstorm and thunder
I wonder just wonder
if maybe there’s something warm under
She faintly smells of perfume
Faintly, but it fills the whole room
What she says: “Do I know you?”
What she doesn’t: “You are staring”
Does she know the captivation
she is wearing?
Who is that pretty girl who
caught my eye and kept it?
Who is this girl
who changed my world perspective
in a way
it seems
she’s perfected?
Who are you, girl?
Why is your
identity
so protected?

“Political poems lead strange lives—they often wither on the vines of the events they’re tied to. Old news gives way to new, and the whole undertaking starts to seem, well, an expense of spirit in a waste of shame. For many and maybe most American readers, ‘poetry and politics just don’t mix.’ But sometimes they do. Quite violently.”

Peter Cole on poet Hayim Nahman Bialik and a political poem’s ironic new life.

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