This is our riot act,
our manifesto,
our revolution:
because the ones
who did this know
we are talking about
their monstrous actions.
It’s time for them
to have the nightmares,
for them to suffer
for what happened,
for them to fear being
named by the same
voices they silenced.

I hope they are
forever haunted
by these two words:
“Me too”

Nikita Gill, Me Too

The Poem I Didn’t Write
after Raymond Carver

by Caitlin Conlon

this is the poem that I started writing on wednesday night,
before you uprooted the garden
and I cried tears of glass
and we threw a rug over the last two months as if
being stuck in different timelines is something you can just step over and forget
as if I don’t swallow everything I’ve ever laid hands on:

do you remember the first time we kissed?
despite the emptiness of that vast and darkened theater I felt so incredibly significant.
I’ve never been one for religion but I swear your hand on my shoulder
can only be described as holy.
you make me into something angelic.
and after the twenty minute special ended
you looked at me as though I was the first beautiful thing that ever adored you.

every time I taste you I become absolved of all sins.
every time I taste you, I become.

It doesn’t have to be Spring for you to bloom.
—  It’s been said that Spring is the time of new beginnings. Enjoy it, but make sure to remember that you can have a new beginning any day, any time. // @maxwelldpoetry
an apology letter to my muse
—  i am sorry that i made a poetry out of every word you said and i am sorry that many a times i painted you as the villain of my stories when you probably were the hero. i am sorry that i told the world your secrets that you shared with me at 2.17am on the nights when it rained a little less and at 1.39am on the nights that were warmer than usual. i am sorry that i talked about you to complete strangers and that i knew more about you than you yourself did. i am sorry if someone ever comes up to you to ask about why you broke my heart, because you didn’t break my heart, i did that and put the blame on you. i am sorry if i made you stay up nights with me because no one could calm down the voices in my head like you did and no one worried about me like you did and so i told you my problems and sometimes made them yours. i am sorry that i talk to my friends about you and sometimes things get out of hand. i am sorry that i never told you how much i love you because i can’t bear to lose our friendship and i can’t bear rejection. i am sorry for all the times i cursed you at 3am because my stupid brain couldn’t stop thinking of you.
i am sorry that i kind of used you to break my heart over and over again even after it was already broken just to feel the pain so that i could write about it all. i am sorry that i couldn’t let go of you when i should have, i am sorry that i am still holding on, i am sorry.
It hurts, doesn’t it? If it didn’t, you probably wouldn’t spend your nights remembering or trying to forget. I don’t know when you’ll be able to smile without calling yourself a liar. I don’t know when you’ll be able to laugh without questioning who the owner of that sound is. It’ll get better, though. You’re going to be okay.
—  There has to be something better than this. // Maxwell Diawuoh

i.
it’s hard to fall in love
with girls like me.
we house hearts like rotting fruit,
inedible,
“what a waste"
“if only I’d found you sooner.”
go on,
press your thumb into a soft spot;
watch me disintegrate.
if hands are going to be what destroys me
I’m praying that they feel like yours.

ii.
last night I had this dream:
I was throwing myself into a volcano,
trying to imagine the ways in which
a phoenix learns to fly
again (and again).
this is a new religion I’ve named
“bite me until it hurts.”
this is a new religion I’ve named
“I dare you to touch me
and come away unchanged.”

iii.
honey, 
sweetheart,
I can write novels upon novels
about the ones that have seen
my body as clay,
tried to mold me into something terrifying and
strange.
but writing about the ones
that could possibly love me
as a work in progress?
there are too many tremors, for that.

look, there.
the volcano is erupting.
I made it just in time.

iv.
I think the problem here is that
I wish I could’ve shared
every
beat
of my pathetic, decomposing heart
with you.
and while it’s true, I guess,
that I didn’t love
as much as I was capable of,
I could have.

I really could have.

People fear someone falling out of love with them, but no one usually questions what it’s like to be the one falling out. They can’t picture feeling that something must be horribly wrong with you because there’s no other plausible explanation for why your heart doesn’t flutter when you look at him like it used to. It was the position I never thought I would find myself in, yet here I was, looking at the man I supposedly loved and not feeling a thing. If there was anything there, it was negative. Annoyance, anger, sadness, the complete opposite of everything he used to make me feel. It wasn’t right to let him believe things were okay, so I told him. Watching his facial expression drift from a quiet seriousness into a brokenness I never thought I would cause, I wished I didn’t mean the words I said but I knew I did. I couldn’t keep running away, after all, where could I go when the person that used to feel like home no longer did?
—  Maxwell Diawuoh, Request: Telling the guy you love that you’re falling out of love for the same reason you fell in love with him.
Do you know that feeling where you just wanted to say “I don’t know what to do” over and over again? Because you literally don’t have an idea what to do anymore and you feel like you’re trapped in this black black void of mess you can’t seem to get out of no matter how fast you tried to run?

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do anymore. And you know what, if you’re ever feeling this, you’re not alone. I’m so deep and stuck in this moment too. I don’t know what to do.
—  cynthia go // excerpt from a book i’ll never write #23