you lie at the foot of my bed

For the first time in six months
and eight days,
I did not sleep in your sweater:
the red one with the torn
Marshalls tag,
which stops just above my knee,
where I have a scar
from falling in the subway.

Every night since March,
I have worn your shirt like a monk’s tunic
to the altar of my bed,
where I gritted my teeth
against memories of whatever new mistake
and fresh silence
coated our ‘relationship,’
and pretended that I wore that red sweater
down to its white threads
out of convenience.

When you gave me the sweater,
I sniffed it every five minutes
for four days
to smell your cocoa butter lotion
deep in the fabric,
like roots planted in a garden:
I thought the scent would never fade.
I wore it until my own smell
overcame the cocoa butter,
until the only sign it was ever yours
was a single memory, faded
into the threads.

Tonight, for the first time
in six months and eight days,
for the first time since the spring night
that I spent in your couch
then in your bed
then between your legs,
for the first time since the New Year,
I did not wear your sweater to bed.
It lay crumpled beneath a blanket,
too worn for summertime,
and I let it stay.

For You

When our children ask about
My greatest accomplishment
I will not turn to my
College degrees or the
People I have saved


I will turn to you and tell
The story of our love
The pain, the heart break
And how the pieces fell
Together


I will tell of the sweating of 
My hands at the airport after
Three years of staring at your image
Piercing through my screen late at night
With only promises to get me by


I will tell of our first house
As the silver ring glistens under
The kitchen light
Reminding me of the night
That your promise came true


I will show pictures of my dress
And they will laugh at how
Outdated that fashion is 
And I will just smile because
It is still the most beautiful I have ever looked


I will tell of the day
We found out that soon
Another life would enter this world
And how I cried in your arms
Remembering the night my life nearly ended


But for now
Your image still pierces
Through my screen
And all I have are your promises
To get me through the day

-R.G

This is how it feels to be immortalized beneath someone else’s fingertips. We are setting fire to each other, and we will burn. I will sweat you out like a fever runs through my veins and still ask you to come back – to remind me, when enough time passes between us, what it is like to swallow flames. A Phoenix is reborn, they tell me. I insist that I don’t have wings. I only have you.

You are a familiar pull, gravity knocked off balance, earth’s tectonic plates grinding and creating. I am your island. I am warm sun and the rustle of green leaves and the way it feels to sink into Mediterranean and hear only the throb of water dull against your eardrums. I am a land born anew, blinking in dawn, created from the collision of our bodies, like mountains. This is how it feels to be born of dirt and earth and the salt on our tongues; we kiss like we are fighting, nails digging constellations into the blank canvas of our backs and we question nothing, accepting it all in a flash of laughter and moans whispered into your collarbones.

There is so much more of you to hold now. You are born here, sprawled across familiar sheets. You have cracked open the earth to expose its molten core and you have carved our names into the crust. The fire spills and bubbles from our mouths, and we know we will never be able to stop the heat that groans down our spines – not until you pull me onto your chest, and I can tap the beat of your drumming heart against your arm as if your body’s quiet recesses are your own symphony.

You are a perfect phenomenon, all rushing blood and burning body and when we get up to crawl back into our skin, we have left the imprints of our sprawled bodies in ash, where we loved each other again.

—  Love Poems for Exes You Still Fuck, Jenn Carmen

you shouldn’t love me
i am beaten
i am broken
you say it’s alright
mosaics are shards of glass, but they are still beautiful
then i am a mosaic gone wrong

you shouldn’t love me
i am frail
i am fragile
you say it’s alright
roses are a touch away from death, but they are still beautiful
then i am a rose with no water

you shouldn’t love me
i am skittish
i am shy
you say it’s alright
foals are uneasy creatures, but they are still beautiful
then i am a stillborn horse

you don’t love me
you didn’t listen
you didn’t hear me
it’s not alright
i tell you about the parts of me that need to be fixed 
you just say i’m beautiful

—  the funny thing is, i never once said i wasn’t beautiful until you brought it up // n.r.

Like pouring salt into
open wounds, I
feel the sting of your
presence as if
death never touched you,
and miles were just
numbers that could
be counted on
one hand.

I miss goofy grins and
afternoon tea,
soup and saltines,
long walks in New York
rainstroms.

I miss the feeling of
weightlessness,
wind flowing
through dark hair
and brushing
away unwanted tears.

I miss feeling
whole.

For freefallinletters because she’s amazing and I wanted to write for her tonight :3

I want to be your dirty secret.
Your daily dose of crack cocaine.
Your meth amphetamine.
I want to be the high
that money can’t buy.
I want to leave tracks
all over your flesh;
constant reminders
of losing yourself,
to an addiction
that has veins swelling
in readiness of the next hit.
I want to be your poison.
I want to be in you;
to consume you in your entirety.

Words are not by nature -nor made-meaningless :
It is lack of comprehension or unrealised or hidden intent
in expressions or action falling short of potential’s fulfillment
That renders a deceit both deadly / impotent-
The diminishment is in the misuse & its invalid utterances’ pretense
Abuse does not alter truth’s substance by malice or negligence
nor does ignorance lessen the core idea, words’ import or conveyed concepts’ significance -
To lie is to rob our own power of truest influence-
To mar & warp our communication in its inherent intent
And strip self of effective means to gain veracity’s credence!
—  (Abusus non tolit usum)

only from a storm
in a very lonely hour
                 an artist arise

become in love
with the light

be done with the night

deep
and deeper

is the Sleeper

drowning in

consumption

there are plenty

        of pretty empty things

no wonder
each day we wake with aches

deeper
and
deeper into the dreams

in sleep we seek
a dream as deep
as the illusion we keep…

Become in love with the light

Be Done with the night.

—  mhd
I have to go;
there is a fire in my belly that I cannot put out.
I have to go;
there are flowers growing from my palms and even the daisies have thorns.
I have to go;
I would rather take the hand of death himself than be a ghost inside
a house of the living.
With my forefinger to your temple,
I would hum;
love does not taste like nicotine;
there are angels in the bathroom sink that have not yet learned how to sing.
 
I am still yours,
but there are doors that need keys that do not exist to unlock them;
there is nothing left but glass.
I have to go.
—  you asked me why I was leaving
C.Y.H. 
Drifter soul
Rootless
Anchor unchained
Warped unraveling thread
Aloof from the weft
Alone at my own behest
What seed may grow
Without some external source & supply?
But often I feel
sterile self-isolation
Greenhouse grown
hydroponic hybrid,
Withered within
From this glassed glare
How do you graft
When tissue rejects
Any semblance or sign of parasitism
Is it better to be simply convenient?
Who in their right mind
Puts useless sorts as cohorts
Priorities ordered
Dictates comrades
Sometimes
But say if you will
Why some simply draw
Animal magnetism
Or sheer charisma
Is this gift a charm or harm
Who can explain
Why those whom careless company pains
may still be so starved
For a sense of belonging
For something or someone
connection: significance
between other/s and one
What toxin or infection
Severed the inclination
Pandemic symptoms
Quarantine’s isolation
Sickness spread by a carrier
Not of independent existence
Sycophantic diagnoses
Despised for its aptness
Solitary remedies
Nothing effective
without measures taken
Do you think that
banishment’s isolation
Would be the solution
To a blighted condition
Aggravated
By self-induced degradation
What sleepless minds seep
In insomnia’s ample ink
Penned the mind and being
Inscribed demented desiccation
A scripted separation
From former fellows’ friendship
When words ran dry
The blot condemned
Set seal to souls’ silence…
— 

the weight of distance chosen, 

not sought but imposed

how fragile must we have been for me to remember how your palms felt like but not to hold your hands too tight because you speak of your ex-lover like you were the matches and she set you on fire and i look at you when you say her name and it’s like your eyes lit up just like when i say yours 


fuck 

you still love her because she did not hold your hand when you walked down a dim lit street she did not tell you she loved you but every time you walked to her house her pace would get slower she was never in love with you but she liked the idea of someone blushing when they think of her and you were a bright red tomato when you got drunk and you talked about her to your friends you see she was never in love with the idea of love she just wanted a summer fling something she can speak and laugh about when she gets married but you fall in love with everything so when you fell in love with fire you did not she was holding the trigger and you were too slow to understand that 


love is not as easy as it is 

and i learnt it too slow you’re on fire and i am a box of matches and without hesitation you clearly in confusion touch everything that comes near to you and i 

did not know 


love could fool one like this.

—  k, love. 
We tunnel the long afternoons,
Tread the road spread with maples.
Eyes behold fallen leaves, petals,
Then the out-of-this-world feeling
Golden gingko all encompassing,
Tread the road spread with maples.
A sunset carpet,on cemented pathways
The rustic bond of heaven,and earth,
For this love can surpass the laws of logic,
For this love can soil all shades of greys.
Four brown eyes beneath wind blown branches,
So much gazing left to do;
Behold fallen leaves, magic petals,
Then this otherworldly feeling
Golden gingko all encompassing.
If you ever want to know how someone truly feels,
see the lovely vulnerability beneath their silken veins,
just watch the way they gaze up into the halcyon sky at night
and make wishes upon stars that will never leave their lips.
Watch the way they breathe into the tranquil silence;
an endless escape of wonder placed in midnight’s careful grasp.
If you ever want to know how someone truly feels
don’t ask, don’t speak - let their eyes tell you themselves.
Cause it’s the wonder and the want, the hope and the fear
that speak volumes more than the loudest voice ever thought it could.
—  missdestroya || If You Ever Want To Know