mild in temperament or behavior, kind or tender
the way your fingertips felt like paintbrushes on my canvas of a cheekbone,
creating nothing less than a Van Gogh every time you touched me,
the way our bodies moved together beneath the moonlight that filtered through the slits in the blinds,
anyone else would have thought we were dancing
having or revealing an exaggerated sense of one’s own importance or abilities
the way you looked at me and saw a broken mirror,
a warped reflection of yourself that you needed to chip away at,
mold into something you could put on paper,
carve into something that looked good only on paper
the ability to understand and share the feelings of another
the way you cupped your hands, tried to catch all of the heartache pouring out of me,
held it up to your ear like a seashell and told me you understood the sound the waves made as they crashed upon the shore,
but you didn’t realize that it wasn’t about the coming together,
instead it was the sending away that kept me up at night
an inordinate opinion of one’s own dignity or superiority
the way you clung to your institutionalized identity like a newborn clinging to his mother’s finger, fast asleep in her arms,
not necessarily afraid to let go but unaware that if he did, he would be okay
that if he unclenched his small fist even for a moment, he would be okay
the way you looked me in the eyes the night you left and told me you were doing it because you loved me,
because I loved you,
because this is what you needed,
the way you asked me to change everything about myself as if my soul were a ball of clay,
asked me to sculpt it so that it would look more like yours and called it love,
called it caring about me,
called it saving me
the way you looked at me the same way I assume Adam used to look at Eve,
with admiration, adoration, and longing,
still knowing that she rose from his rib,
believing that she needed him to feel whole ignoring the fact that he had to lose a rib to bring her into existence,
pretending he can breathe without her,
knowing that he could not breathe without her,
afraid of what he would do without her
so instead he clipped her wings
sanded down her shoulder blades
poured cement in her shoes
so he’d never have to find out
I swear the ocean is bottled up inside of your eyes, its deep blue waves rolling up and crashing against your pupils.
I want to let myself drown in them.
The stars reside on the very tips of your fingers, brightening everything they touch.
I wish so badly to be the night sky that they dance upon.
Your head holds inside of it a universe in which I long to explore.
I want to know all that there is to know about you.
This crush is totalling and I don’t know what to do with this feeling, Because I’ve never felt this way before, About any boy or girl. You make my heart beat faster than it should, But I can’t let this happen because I don’t know what would happen if I could Just let go.
You look at me like I’m the only one around And when we touch, the electricity almost makes a sound. My skin tingles at your touch, And your voice makes my knees buck.
I don’t know if we could be anything, And I don’t know if you feel the same way about me, But I look over at you and hope to god That you feel the same way too So that I can explore this feeling inside, This feeling that’s becoming harder and harder (so fucking hard) To hide.
When I was in high school, I had a lot
more close friends than I have now. I mean, a lot. People I felt
unlimited comfort with and trusted entirely. I always heard that if you
have one or two people in your life you really trust as lifelong
friends, you’re lucky. I knew better. I had at least a dozen.
drifted away from a couple of them because I didn’t want to join them in
their drug addictions. A few of them turned out to be pretty big on
sexual harassment/assault without ever feeling they were doing anything
wrong. Most of the rest of them just ended up not really caring about
anything other than themselves, and to them friendship was just a
promise of having a receptacle for their frustrations. They didn’t
respect my boundaries or the kind of person I was striving to become.
All of them were a drain on my mental and emotional resources, and none
of them seemed to particularly care.
See, here’s the thing: we all
have those people in our lives that will be there forever. The problem
is, some of them really shouldn’t–and we have to learn when it’s time
to cut them.
I don’t know no one
up all night.
Wouldn’t it be fun
to hear someone
up your stairs
and knock on your door.
and share the rain
with me, You.
Isn’t it wonderful to hear
shudder. How old it all,
How slow it goes, steaming
coffee, marvelous morning,
the tiniest hairs
on the trees’ arms
I like it better,
no one knows
sweetness, moving your
lips in silence.
Closing your eyes all night.
It’s so much better
from terror, and light
a painting I stuck
on a window
earlier, when I was scared.
It’s great, it’s really great.
Trees hold the world
and the weather
Even a body dissolves
and takes a place, incorrectly,
everywhere I would
like to nuzzle,
and plants a heart
in the world
I began knocking.
Ridiculous. Just to hear
your echo back,
arm against face
just to stop those fucking
trucks, my thoughts
into that sweetness.
age āj/ 1. The length of time that a person has lived or a thing has existed. 2. Dead at 19. 3. My current age. ad·o·les·cent ˌadəˈles(ə)nt/ 1. (of a young person) in the process of developing from a child into an adult. 2. Your parent’s words and threats on sex running through your mind while going in raw. 3. Rolling and smoking blunts in the train tracks nicknamed Narnia located behind Little Village High School Campus 4. Hard to make it past 20. 5. Knowing Some will miss your High School reunion. bul·let ˈbo͝olət/ 1. A projectile for firing from a rifle, revolver, or other small firearm, typically made of metal, cylindrical and pointed, and sometimes containing an explosive. 2. What could have killed my mother. What could have killed me. 3. The thing that stayed in the cylinder when I was 5, but had me swallowing spoon-fulls of sugar. 4. What forced Michael’s blood to gush out, brains and blood splattered down Pulaski Ave. vi·o·lence ˈvī(ə)lənse 1. behavior involving physical force intended to hurt, damage, or kill someone or something. 2. “Savage colored boys are the real problem.” 3. 7PM is the real curfew. 4. $1.50 Virgen de Guadalupe candles and flowers decorating Pulaski Ave. 5. Pay no mind the bursting in the night, we’ll find out what it was tomorrow on the news. It’s nothing, and if it was, oh well, these things always happen here. moth·er ˈməT͟Hər/ 1. woman in relation to a child or children to whom she has given birth. 2. The one holding her dead son in the hospital; blood dried over the bullet.
Looking at the meaning of true love, Sadhguru gives us a powerful process to take love beyond words and make it an enduring quality within. Sadhguru: The English expression, “Falling in love,” is significant because no one rises in love or climbs in love. You fall in love, because something of who you are has to go.
I’d like to submit an extension on this analysis of the meaning of true love, which in this specific context, necessarily imbues a sort of counter-intuitive, semantic reversal. That, to fall into an authentic love is to rise– Is in fact, to transform; It is the falling out of, and away from, old perspectives and into new ones; It is a glorious shedding of old skin; It is the climbing out of an old self and into a better one; It is the selfless encouragement of that rise in our partner; it is without condition. Love becomes an essential part of a long ascension toward enlightenment and actualization. Here then, true love becomes about fearlessness and freedom, and in this case, of the self to be the self and un-infringed by the previously limiting, ego oriented aspects of the self without sacrificing the fundamental “you”; To be uninhibited and rise spontaneously in pure acceptance, love and trust. And the falling, well, that is merely another way to express a release and liberation from outdated modes of thought and being. So yes, something of who you are has to go, but it is good! If you are not rising or climbing or growing in love (making each other better, for instance), it is probably not true love, but something else.
Your hymn’s haunting flute
trails single birds, off to roost
across the blue striped golden
setting sun on sheep fleece clouds
a gentle flock safe from harm
and my fingertips fall free
the last drops of jasmine eves
years long gone, gone
I follow their trail
into the sticky fig familiar glow
heavy syrup light embalming my skin
it will follow me,
it will follow
Dive, with last gasp held,
and taken, and given away
on a joyful evening
under still-your eyes
of a childhood friend,
close as the next breath
never to go without
Word Nerd is an on-going feature that shares and highlights unique, whimsical and sometimes forgotten or overlooked words. It’s dedicated to the logophile in us all.
Apricity is an exquisite word that derives from the Latin aprīcus (“warmed by the sun”). Apricity is a particularly apt word since yesterday marked Imbolcwhich is the middle of the Winter season. It’s also the time when the Groundhog…
the paintbrush of time strokes each feeling a different color with each passing moment—
but it is us who will remember which used to be light and which used to be dark;
because looking at someone
who used to be your yellow
could be the cause of your shades of gray
nailed in your memory
and rooted in your soul
are the many times you were blue, an unfinished canvas
and she made you an entirely new masterpiece
because without a doubt,
she was the artist
who crafted you
and never stopped creating you
with her, you had vibrant sceneries in your eyes
your heartbeat coincided with each color change
and she made your still life come alive
admittedly, her skill was flawless and
her expertise had you thinking you were
more than just another painting
from her mouth spilled the words
“you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me”,
“you’ll always be mine”,
“i love you”,
and she had these hues and tones
drying on the canvas
enhancing the image
and showing observers at the exhibit
just how much she cared
until the time came when she didn’t:
her inspiration grew white
and the paint stopped drying
because all she could do was run her paintbrush up, down, across, over the canvas
trying to save what was
but instead making it become what it shouldn’t be
and the guests of the exhibit
all saw the unfortunate accident
and side-stepped the splatters of paint
and she, a coward, gave up on you
stopped seeing your potential and
to change her canvas
you saw how she made other artworks like you were just a practice piece
her attention to detail now more accurate than
the recklessness with which she made you
and purple bruises from being thrown aside
would never compare to the feeling of not being good enough to be her masterpiece
and while time might paint the feelings anew
you will always feel
created but unfinished
whole but torn
because, like the brightest color possible
it will always be ingrained in your mind that
you were the artwork that failed
and she was the artist that ruined you