“he calls you paperclip not because you hold everyone together when the wind tries so hard to scatter souls or because your eyes flash hints of silver when you talk about your favorite song or because your lip ring taints your kisses metallic. paperclip because he can downsize you in an instant replacing you with a version of yourself that doesn't weigh his pockets down your body now too small to hold your essence and a mouth that will only open wide enough to swallow. you are easily forgotten but somehow always end up attached to his keychain. paperclip because he can bend you to his will and you don't even notice until everything else begins falling out of your grasp. every time he snaps you back into place the world has only changed but a fraction of a centimeter and you're used to measuring your life in kilometers. paperclip because he is a staple leaving puncture wounds in everything he touches a few drops of blood in every corner of your mind and when you learn how to extract him from your heart no goodbye is successful enough to patch permanent holes you fold yourself in upon and pretend not to notice. to this day, that chapter of your life remains dog-eared and you wonder why you still have trouble picking locks.”
—“paperclip” - tyler ford (tylerthelatteboy)
I want to love a thunderstorm -
an angry boy with thunder in his eyes,
cut glass teeth and a lightning bolt tongue
that sparks a fire in my veins
with every tumultuous kiss.
Or perhaps a boy with wildfire
flickering in his eyes. With smoke that billows
from the corners of his smirk,
and spills into the capacity
of my unassuming lungs.
Or maybe he’ll be a hurricane -
gentle at first, then crashing
and engulfing,
and capturing my seashell heart
in all his saltwater love.
(d.s.)
You can have my lazy afternoons,
My sips of tea,
The steam curling from my mug.
You can have a few laughs,
A hug that lasts
Longer than necessary,
A kiss
Or two
Or four.
Take my early mornings,
When I am still
Rubbing the sleep
From my eyes.
Lay with me on sun-burnt grass,
You can have those days
Where the sun is so bright
I think it will never set.
You can have my fingers
In your hair.
You can have my spine
In your hands.
Here, I will give you
The way I smile
With both sides of my mouth
When you make me
Especially happy.
You can have my mix-tapes,
The bucket of shells
I collected one summer
When I was young,
My favorite books
With the important parts highlighted.
You can have every song
I ever cried to,
Every star
I ever wished on,
Every daisy I ever
Wove into a bracelet
Around my wrist.
You can have me.
You can have almost
All of me.
But you can not have
My two AM’s,
My shaking nights,
My scary dreams.
Because, dear,
I am saving those
For someone
Who loves me back.
I’m done
drinking coffee
past 10 p.m. and
cutting myself
off in the middle
of sentences just
because I tell myself
what I have to say is
not important and
loving people who
take too much time
learning to treat me
well and don’t spend
enough time studying
my soul but mostly
I’m done pretending
that there is a day
better than today to
make life the way
I want it to be,
because I’ve
finally found that
you never know if
today is the only one
so I am changing pace
and making peace
with the past and
present.
Lately, I’ve been breathless.
I spend my time somewhere
between suffocation and
“This should suffice…”
My lungs are not quite full,
Yet not quite hollow, still
Contracting, still expanding,
Still trying, desperately,
to filter through the haze of
smoke and mirrors surrounding
my heart. Save me
from this spool of yarn,
knotted, twisted, unnatural,
before they stand in line
to tighten the noose
that I’ve placed upon my neck.
I simply forgot that jewelry
is seldom made of rope.
comparing myself to simple girls with good hearts and no punch.
I am a pile-up
on the highway that
somehow attracts stares.
In all my gore and blood
and careless mistakes,
people still want to touch.
I am not like you.
You are a well-made bed
and clean pyjamas.
You are the yellow centre
of a soft boiled egg.
You are the right thing to do.
You fit in like a piece of
furniture, unobtrusive
and suitable anywhere.
You are decorative pillows
and remembering to call
your mother.
You are what they all need.
I am what they want.
Just this once. Just tonight.
I am the tiny pill with
a smiley face that they
promise never to touch again.
I am hangover, bad trip,
Alcoholics Anonymous.
I am their
father’s word of advice,
the faces of their family
all ugly with worry.
I am a bad decision.
You are the first shred
of sunshine after too many
months of winter.
You are daffodils.
Candy floss.
Sweet tooth.
I am cavity.
I am rot.
I am bleeding gums.
I am something to be fixed.
You are what they believe
will fix them.
