ae: poetry

Dear Anonymous,

I do believe in soulmates. I’ve met a fair many actually. Not all were lovers, but they were all loved indeed. I met a tiny soul that knew how to giggle with braces and she always said that being free meant that we had to let go of our own greeds. She was the first time I realized my own selfish desires. I met this tiny soul and I finally tasted love for the first time. It was young, but love is love and that still hurt me. I met a soul that caught mine on fire and she still texts like I’d answer, to be honest with you, she’s reading this very poem with you. She’s dictating this whole section of this prose piece. She’s the namesake of my blog. She’s the reason why I’ve been dying on Tumblr for almost a year. She’s the reason I met my sister. She’s the reason I grew. She’s the reason why you get to ask these questions. And she’s reading this with you because that’s all that we’ll ever have left. Things to be written and things to be read. But that’s it, you know? Some stories cut short, but her story, it’ll never be exactly over. And I’ll regret typing these words, but I still love her like the first time I saw her smile and she’ll read this and go, yeah, I thought so, I guess for today, we can say that she has won. But the war is mine and this soul that caught fire on my arms, she will be something I can’t love, but she will be something that I can love; is that confusing? Let me explain. Love does these things to us. I’ve moved away from her so many times that she finally left. I broke her heart so many times that she finally cracked open mine. I took her hips one time too many, I guess some dances won’t ever happen again. I’ve seen her skin shine in the dark and I’ve seen her smile fade into the night. I’ve called her the sun before and some days, she still reminds. I’ve called her the moon before and some nights, she’s still mine. I told myself, this will be the last time I will ever write about you, but it never really happens. She’s my bad habit. She’s my addiction, but even addicts get a second chance, even bad habits disappear, and even poets stop immortalizing people who no longer appear within the words. She’s reading these words and she’s searching for happiness that we once shared and my apologies, but I no longer think about you and smile. This was a poem for the anon, but it seems that you’re still reading so, you can get a piece of the cake too. Some souls don’t last forever. When I say that, I mean they come and go as they please. They touch and burn themselves out. They fear more than they love and they resent more than they accept. But you see, that was our problem. WE. We… We were the problem. Identical in every way. I loved her every way. From her flaws to her perfections. From her smiles to her tears. From her intelligence to her shallowness. From her rivers to her deserts. From her nights to her days. We were so identical. We stopped accepting each other a long time ago. Sex destroyed us both. She never stopped me and I never really cared enough to be tender and gentle. Relationships suck, but you want know what’s worse? They end and you’re there; your mistakes, a ghost hanging from the ceiling. Your words the noose. Her goodbye, the death of me. Her touch, a reminder that even beautiful things can break us. Her smile, a reminder that lips do more than speak. Her laughter, a reminder that memories come knocking when you least expect it. She always gets the longest parts of my poetry when it comes to love, and it’s because she’s my longest relationship. She is a soul and I was lost within it for so long that I forgot about my own and she’ll be reading this and go, he never forgot. Baby, how could I? Even if you forget, I don’t think I ever can. And I have tried to move on, it didn’t work. I’m honest, I’m more over her now than months ago, but it’s not all the way there.

Recently, however.

I’ve met another soul.
And this whole piece has
gotten off track, but hear me out.

She has dark hair that matches her smirky smile. When she’s around, my heart doesn’t think twice. It beats and beats. I seem to be a steaming kettle when she’s around. I seem to be out of breath when she talks. I seem too nervous because I don’t want to fuck this up. I seem to have this shaking inside of my bones and my hands can’t stop fissuring. I’m cracked and I think she notices. I’ve written her a few letters and maybe she’s afraid. Maybe, my words are nothing. Maybe she thinks I’m a loser, but it doesn’t matter. The thing is, I tried to get to know her. She has beauty, but I don’t know her insides. She has the looks, but I’ve yet to peek into her brain. She has the struggle beneath her eyes, I can see the bags containing a new universe. I can see a small sadness that yells a silent whisper of regrets. She smiles because she has to, and I’ve not known much peace but if there was ever anything more disturbing than having a crush on someone out of your league–

It is the fact that she has yet to reject me.

That scares me. At every corner,
there’s an open letter to her heart.

That scares me because the last time
I wrote my heart for someone,
they left my insides on the ground.

That scares me because I don’t know
how to act or how to write or
how to breathe or how to talk.

This shyness that I developed,
it is most likely from guilt.

I’ve come to the realization that I don’t know how to treat people properly. I don’t have respect for anyone but people who might penetrate my mind with something interesting. I don’t have kindness for stupid people because the world is full of it. I’m not a perfect man. Far from it, I’m imperfect. So the fact that you’re asking about relationships to me is kinda ironic. I’m the last person to tell someone how to love another.

But if you want the truth. I’ve met all kind of souls. Every single person that I have loved. They were my soulmate. And the truth is.

They don’t stay. They touch. They breathe down your neck. And then just like that.

A dull part of your soul just completely sharpens itself and you’re using it to cut your heart from out of your own chest because your heartbeats sound so much like theirs you can’t fucking sleep and it still bothers me because even as she’s reading this; she’s going to skim through it quickly because that’s her method to not crying while reading my poetry.

And I guess the tldr is…

Soulmates do exist, they just don’t stay with you forever. Soulmates do exist, they just stay for a short period. Soulmates do exist, but just remember…

Their definition of love won’t always be the same as yours.

—  To our soulmates
it’s not so bad, you think, as you touch your palms to your cheekbones, drag your fingers down your cheeks, open your wet eyes, feeling like if i get through this, i can get through anything. and maybe it was hard, and maybe it is hard, and maybe it will still be hard years from now, but you know, you will not die from this. you will get over this someday because you have no choice not to. and isn’t it amazing to think that someone who has been through so much is still standing? you know, that’s the kind of person who makes other people realize they can get through anything.
—  you are doing fine, trust me // @scarredconversations
You know what you deserve? You deserve so much better. So many things have happened to you whether its a bad break up, family issues, friends, whatever it is.. you pulled through. You have made it this far and I’m proud of you. You truly deserve the world and since no one can give you that now, find someone that will, apologize, forgive but don’t forget, find new friends. Ones that make plans with you and free their time to give you attention. You deserve all good things and don’t for a second think you’re not worth it because you remind me of the sun, you hide away but always come back even more beautiful than before.

So this is about
withdrawals
and
missing someone.

If you don’t know a thing about addiction to both drugs and love;

please, stop reading now.

But if there is a slight chance that you might understand, take a peek into my brain.

I’m going through withdrawals from painkillers.

And some days, we take it because we don’t want to feel a thing. Empty promises left inside of your kitchen sink, you let them drain away. Pouring paint down the drain, doesn’t it feel fun to split open your heart and let the art slide down.

I’m going through withdrawals–

and it’s not that I don’t have any,

but the addict knows about his addiction.

The poet reads his own poetry.

The author reads every letter of every word like the book was going to heal the world.

The lover loves his many lovers,
but he constantly asks:

Where is everyone?

I’m going through withdrawals–

and I’m walking around the neighborhood and I can’t tell if it’s the best part of the day, but it’s always quiet around 5 am and while everyone is sleeping, I’m painting the sky until it’s finally time for the sun to rise and they’ll never know, but I asked for it to be there today.

The sun never disappoints.

It’s not like people. It’s not like us.
It’s not like me.

The sun has an addiction to people.

But the people never looks twice,

how blinding.

I’m going through withdrawals,
but it’s not the itching of the skin
that gets to me.

It’s the bleeding that I might find beneath
that freaks me out.

I’m scared of the voices in my head
and what I might find inside of my chest.

I’m going through withdrawals,
but it’s not the constant need for rest
that gets to me.

It’s the fact that waking up tired
means I haven’t slept for shit.

It’s the fact that waking up to fake a smile
means that I didn’t wake up happy today,

I’m scared of myself,

what if I never find happiness again?

Without someone’s help.

What if I never find it within myself?

I’m going through withdrawals,
but it’s not the constant digging
for more that gets to me.

I don’t mind looking for my next fix
and that causes more trauma
than a chain of car accidents pinning
me to my

heart.

I don’t mind looking for my next fix,
but I once heard in a song,
just because she has a pretty face;
it doesn’t mean that she’s good for you.

My sister said,

just because they say the right words,
at the right time;

it doesn’t mean that they’re the one.

Because we’re hurting to know.

To know truth about ourselves.

Like if I could do this any better,
would anyone ever love me again?

I’m going through withdrawals again
and I think I saw you in my sleep.

I guess that means that I’m missing you again.

And I’ve been listening to these songs, but I swear that it’s your voice singing through every beat, and I swear you wrote every word to
taunt
me.

And it’s not that miss having someone to hold me together while I search for more reasons to stay:

But the coldness of not having someone there when I need comfort–

It’s slightly more uncomfortable than a whole bottle of prescriptions gone missing.

I’m going through withdrawals again
and I can’t decipher if I’m his way

because I have an addiction

to feeling nothing

or an addiction

to looking for you inside of a pill.

—  I guess I’ll never know
you are beginning to forget what her voice sounds like,
they all tell you this is a good thing,
you are more terrified than you thought possible,
sometimes, you still dream of her,
those are the nights you look forward to,
your mother does not understand how your pain is your pleasure,
even you know that sooner or later, you will have to let go of the color of her eyes,
but you are not ready.
—  let go
change comes  like this, sometimes:
more afraid of you
than you are of it.
wrapped in bubble wrap,
stumbling in on shaky legs,
fumbling with the keys to the getaway car
in its pocket.
sometimes you have to coax it out,
keep sugar on your tongue,
be more delicate than you know how to be.
sometimes it’s honey-slow,
sometimes you have to sit,
bone-still,
in the woods for hours
before it comes close.
sometimes even change doesn’t want itself to come.
—  moving day, maria santone
i mistook myself for desert. told my body to hush
when it begged for water. ignored the wailing jaws
that burst open on the soles of my feet every time
i walked across the concrete in the middle of july.
i know the battle hymn the inside of my thighs sing
better than anyone else. i look in the mirror
and see a gaunt brushfire. every day is not a day—
it is a feast. i live off both everything and nothing.
i see myself as both unstoppable and terrifyingly temporary.
such is the contradiction of desert girls with small hands
and growing bellies. here i am: choking on the dust
of myself, knowing everything that was once strong
is now alkali. o, how beautifully i sing lies to myself
at night. how clumsy my teeth are while trying to consume
the truth: that the desert will be beautiful no matter what,
but something must be done about the drought.
—  desert girl, Lydia Havens