365 poetry project

It’s not love in the traditional sense.
I love you.
I love being around you.
I love holding your hand and talking to you.
I love hearing your ideas.
I love how much of yourself you put into your life.
It’s not love in the romantic sense.
I just want to be there for you, to catch you when you fall and to help you along the way.
And I want you to be there for me too.
Because I love you.
I’m just not in love with you.
—  Thoughts on my newfound squish. A.A.C. (5/364)
I’m sorry that I am soft
And easily bruised
This life has left me
Hypersensitive and emotional
Dripping with intensity
Like plums left in the summer sun
I know I’m messy when touched the wrong way
But maybe that’s all love is…
Learning how to eat rotten fruit
Without getting your fingers sticky
—  “Juice” by Jessy Hudson
One of the worst parts of ending a relationship
Is mourning the loss
Of the expected future
Losing what you’ve had is bad enough
But losing what you hoped to have
Is sometimes even worse
Dozens of birthdays unnecessarily planned for
Apartments mentally decorated
And anniversaries that will never happen
I don’t know what I miss more
The memory of you
Or the idea of what we were supposed to have
—  “Seattle, WA - Las Vegas, NV - San Diego, CA” by Jessy Hudson
We were depressed but because we had each other we pretended that we weren’t.
We pushed it down the same way we pulled our sleeves down over our arms and hoodies over our heads hoping no one would notice.
But that was the thing, we couldn’t fix each other.
We needed to fix ourselves.
We needed real love, love within,
love for ourselves before trying to love each other.
I let him go.
He let me go.
He found himself at the bottom of a bottle of vodka and
I still walk around at night hoping that I’ll see something familiar, maybe a glimpse of myself.
—  (188/365) by (KJ)

О юношеских рифмах

Под окном весь день ведутся ремонтные работы, подняли асфальт, выкопали яму, стоит техника и толпятся люди рядом с длинными синими трубами - наверное, что-то серьезное, потому что с наступлением темноты принесли фонари. Будут работать всю ночь. На удивление звук бура, двигателей, голоса строителей, удары молотка и скрежет сварки сливаются для меня в мелодию -  в какой-то момента дня даже в колыбельную, под которую я засыпаю на целый час. В остальном это даже не раздражает, звучит фоном за окном - будто кто-то есть рядом. Потому что в квартире совсем пусто. Нестерпимо пусто. 

Помните, как писали стихи, когда были меньше ростом и не думали считать возраст по датам в паспорте. Помните, кому они были посвящены? Как не спали ночами, как думали в течение дня, как мечтали, смотря в звездное небо, что, может быть, эти рифмы окажутся не в пустоте белых листов, а станут чем-то большим - оживут и исполнят всё то, что в себе заключали. Может быть, сейчас самое время вернуться к ним, выделить чуть больше часа, чтобы перечитать или просто подумать о юношеских попытках быть поэтом - почти каждый из нас был, каждый из нас пробовал, каждый из нас знал, кому посвятить приходящие в голову строчки, пока возвращались привычной дорогой из школы домой. 

Но даже вспоминая сейчас о том, что было - это почти не имеет веса, кроме дымчатой структуры воспоминаний, вроде случайной тени в солнечный день, которая так напоминает что-то своей формой. А ведь тогда это не давало нам спать, это поглощало и не давало иногда дышать - рифмы опережали вдох, а неразделённые чувства бурлили внутри. Не отрицайте, просто вспомните это про себя, шепотом произнеся в темноте. И оставьте в памяти. Ведь сейчас это всего лишь детские нескладные рифмы, которые кажутся слишком банальными и невесомыми, а когда-то они заключали в себе целый отдельный мир, в который мы старались спрятаться, когда реальность казалось невыносимой или не создавала в себе ожидаемого. 

Наше детство осталось в этих наполовину запомнившихся рифмах, хорошо если что-то осталось на бумаге - но чаще это лишь обрывки тех мыслей, чувств, что казались такими необъятными. А что сейчас? Рифмы не вяжутся, даже если есть кому посвятить. За окном строители ловят ритм молотками и искрами сварки. Я среди пустых комнат. И все что есть рядом - мои воспоминания. Потому что иногда здорово вспоминать и убирать обратно - в прошлое, все свои незаконченные рифмы. И с трудом вспоминать, кому они были посвящены.

I was never what you wanted
But you faked a smile well
And maybe that was enough
For both of us for a while
But now that the dust has settled
And I’m trying to climb out of the rubble
I’m slowly realizing
That this foundation was full of lies
False bricks and crumbling wood
That I was stupid and naive enough
To use as the building blocks
For my walls and support beams
And maybe the most disappointing part
Is that I’m still not sure
If you were lying to me
Or lying to yourself
I used to fight for this
Because I had faith that you belonged here
But now I’m realizing
That if you have to cut a shape
For the puzzle piece to fit
It doesn’t count as a solution
—  “Jigsaw” by Jessy Hudson
Come here with all of your parts too soft for this world. Surrender your hell hurting, your soul set in wrong hands. I will be careful with it. I will gather your layers into something different, something like heaven and moonlight. I will quiver from loving you whole with all my smallness that even the tides will open up for us. Even the gods will call it holy.
—  astagesetforcatastrophe, gathering soft
You are art. Every inch of you is incredible and no matter how many times I see you something is new. There are constellations hidden in your freckles and galaxies in your eyes. Your muscles are rolling hills and hidden valleys worth exploring. Your birth marks are not splotches, they are as much a part of you as your lips, hands, ears, or toes. You are more than you see yourself. So much more.
—  An open letter #15

I cant find the words to describe what
Loving you felt like
It was lazy sunday mornings spent
Exploring each others bodies as
The sun rose and painted the room in its glow
It was Friday nights falling into bed,
To high or To in love to feel our faces
Sweaty and tangled in the sheets as
The music pounding in our veins drove us to Dance

It was winter nights spent in a fort ,
Watching movies and feeding each other pie
It was summer days spent
Sprinting through The forest
You nipping on my heels as I laughed
And claimed I was uncatchable

Loving you was mascara tracks down my face When I found
Her in your bed
It was Scrubbing myself raw
Because I could still feel you under my skin

It was loss and Betrayal,
It was Love and Contentment

In the end, I don’t have an alphabet big enough
To describe our love
I can only say, Loving you was like
Loving a Hurricane

Everyone loves the Rain
But when it rains it pours
And the flood washes everything away
You Destroyed everything I was
And just Left

—  Loving you was like loving a Hurricane–K.R(34/365)
She’s the kind of girl
That you get hung up on
Like thorns in the underbrush
That you can’t let go of
As if she were covered with honey
Sickly-sweet licked off of fingertips
She’s the kind of girl
Who is always just out of reach
Close enough to feel her breath on your neck
But touching her body
Doesn’t mean she’s thinking of you
There may be galaxies behind her eyes
Full of wonders that you crave
Like air in your lungs
But there is no way inside
She has locked all of the doors
And forgotten where she’s hidden the key
She manages incidental reciprocity
But she never really learned how to trust
Although she’s gotten very good at faking it
She is not a creature built for love
But it’s human nature to lust after
What you can’t have
So you’ll continue to happily break yourself open
Against her rocky shores
Until the ocean is stained with your blood
Saltwater into saltwater
Running red
—  “Citadel” by Jessy Hudson
And just like that, you’ll fall – without trying to, of course. You will kiss her confused at first and then like holy lands, like too much earth for hand to hold, like silent, like loud, like familiar and foreign. And always, you will do this with mouth like never leaving at all. You will love her kind and love her gentle. You will make some good history out of this growing old together. You will make alive.
—  astagesetforcatastrophe, some good history

Dear fifteen year old me,

How you doing? Its been awhile. I’m here to let you know a few things, the main thing is; its going to get a lot worse. But then its going to get a lot better.

Don’t worry about that boy, in about two years he’s going to come around. You’ll fall into a love that will consume your soul. You’ll get hurt, and you’ll move on.

The man you’re going to fall for this year is not to be trusted. Use your gut. Be safe, he’s going to take advantage of your youth.

Hug your brothers. Play with them more
Try to understand them. They won’t be around much longer.

You’re going to hate mom, and spend hours locked away in your room.. That’s okay. Just, don’t take her lightly when she talks about moving, its going to happen and suddenly.

The rug that is your life is going to get ripped out from under your feet. You’re going to get really, really, really sad… This is going to cause you to drop out of school. I know, its dumb. But you’re gonna be okay. There’s going to be a time when you’re homeless, a few times actually.

You’re going to work at a place you love for years, save your money. I didn’t and I wish I did.

You’ll meet a girl who will transform everything you thought about friendships in one night. She is your soulmate and has been searching for you for years. Hold on tight.

People are going to surprise you, in terrible and amazing ways. You’re going to find love in a dingy bar, and when you’re least expecting it. Its going to be hard, and for a really long time. But come the 7th year, you’re going to be sitting in this spot realizing that you have overcome so much, and that you are worth more than you ever imagined.

You’re going to be okay. Trust me, I was once you.

—  An open letter #19