good poem

I do like to think that I have a way with words. I like to think that my vocabulary is strong, and my way of stringing words together is eloquent. I like to think that I could write a good poem in a minute, or a good story in an hour. But you see, when she embodies all the words I have, I find it hard to come up with new ones and ways to say the things I want to tell her. How can I write about one who is everything?

It’s funny how when somebody leaves you, you’ll turn to anything that’ll hurt as much as they did.

Maybe you’ll pick a new brand of gin or drink a shot of whiskey every time you think about him. You’ll tell yourself that it’s because you want to forget his name, but you know that he’ll spin in circles around your head the same way the room is spinning around your vision.

Maybe you’ll try to smoke him out of your lungs. Maybe you’ll find your nails turning yellow but you’ll still inhale with every breath because you’d rather taint your blood than think about the fact that he still lives under your skin like a cloud of smoke.

Maybe you’ll kiss a lot of strangers whose names you don’t know because you’ll tell yourself that you can’t taste the past in someone new- but you still do. You still feel him with every lips you touch and God, do you wish you weren’t kissing anyone but the one person you’re not supposed to think about.

Maybe you’ll tell your best friend that the pain is gone. Maybe you’ll tell them that you don’t even think about it anymore, honestly. Funny because you know you still listen to his voicemails on repeat like a song stuck in your head. Funny because you know your best friend knows it too.

Funny because you won’t admit it to yourself, but you’ll do anything to a feel a pain worse than him leaving. You’ll look for anything that’ll push that boundary, anything to remind you of him even if it’s just a reminder of the way he left you. Funny because you tell yourself you’re doing it because you’re trying to get over him, but really you’re only doing it to try to forget that he ever left.

—  The funniest things happen

Monday 8:27am
I woke up with you on my mind.
You called me babe last night —
my heart is still pounding.

Tuesday 10:53pm
Today I realized we won’t work.
What we are is hurting her.
And I think she matters more to me than you do.

Wednesday 11:52pm
I broke things off with you today.
She barely said a word.
I’ve never regretted anything more than this.

Thursday 4:03pm
I shouldn’t have sent that message.
You shouldn’t have been so okay with receiving it.

Friday 9:57pm
I almost messaged you today.
I didn’t.

Saturday 8:49pm
I’m walking around town in search of alcohol.
They say that liquor numbs the pain of having a broken heart.
I want to put that to the test.

Sunday 2:32am
I heard you texted a girl you’ve never spoken to before.
I wonder if it’s because you’re trying to replace me.
I can’t help but wish you weren’t.
I thought I was irreplaceable.

—  a week with you on my mind, c.j.n.
Throughout 2016, I hope you learn to love yourself. I hope that you surround yourself with the most positive of people. I hope that when people ask you how you’re doing, you can say that you’re doing great and truly mean it. I hope that you fall in love with the world around you, and end up loving life. But most importantly, I hope that 2016 is the year that everything in your life falls into place, and you finally start living.
—  make this your year.

how old were you when they told you that your body was a temple you weren’t allowed to let other people into? that your hallowed soul would somehow rot and grow mold if you let another human being’s breath caress the tops of your shoulders, the curve of your neck?

because i was seven. my father said, “your body is a gift, save it.” i am not an object. i am not an object.  

“it’s good to cover up.” no. i cover up mistakes, i cover up failures. i am not either one of these, and it has taken me years to train myself out of believing it. if i must lay eyes on every whitehair chest of lobster-red old men in their wrinkly skin and saggy swimsuit bottoms, you can handle my spaghetti straps, my dresses above the knee, my shorts, my v-neck tee. 

“what will people think?” well given that when i dress modestly i’m seen as a prude and a frigid bitch, i’m going to assume they’re thinking something insidious. the happy thing is: their thoughts don’t change my reality. i am not defined by them. you can’t tell me who i am. you don’t own this. you will never own this.

“leave something to the imagination.” your problem is the reality of my body, and i’m not sorry. you hate that you can’t imagine me flawless, no scars, no scabby shins, not a real human. in your head, you photoshop onto me large breasts that stay perky without a bra, hips without stretchmarks, a spine without freckles. but i am real, and these are all beautiful, and you should feel blessed you look upon them. 

“no man wants a woman like that.” that’s fine with me. i don’t want a man who judges me for showing off my body. in fact, some of us don’t want a man at all. sadly for you, i don’t dress to impress strangers. i dress because it’s summer, and i’m hot, and i don’t just mean the temperature. and for the record? when i do dress for my man in skimpy little booty shorts? he doesn’t seem to have much of a problem with or without it. he loves me for who i am and not the purpose i serve as an object.

and i am not an object. i am not an object. you don’t get to sum up my personality based on my clothing. you cannot hold a book and look at the cover and tell me the whole story. you cannot look at me and know anything. i am not just a book. i’m a nation of libraries.

i do not become unholy for a strapless dress. i do not lose myself for daring to wear a skirt with a slit up the leg. “ladies, your body is sacred, make sure you dress in clothing i personally find demure and satisfyingly modest” sounds a lot like you think you’re a god and only you can determine whether or not i'm worthy of eternal damnation. 

i got news for you, buddy.

i’m a goddess. i don’t ask for permission.

—  Let me dress for the weather without comment. I don’t care if you “don’t like the packaging.” I’m not a package, and even if I was, it’s not to your house I’ll be showing up. // r.i.d

When you go,
please take the 
fact that your 
favourite colour is
green because your
birthday is on
St. Patrick’s Day
out of my brain.
I will have no use
for it anymore.

Please remove 
the knowledge that
you wash your hands
every time you enter
a room because you
are terrified of getting 
This means nothing
to me anymore.

Please erase the memory
of each time you begged 
me to tuck you into bed
because your mother
always told you that 
the monsters steal
you by your toes.
I cannot protect 
you anymore.

When you go,
please don’t leave
any parts of you
here, as if they
still belong to me.

—  When you go - January 4th, 2016 (k.p.k)

When I said “have a good day” I meant

it is okay if you do not. I meant

I think it is brave that you know that

this world is full of suffering and that

you open your heart to it anyway.

I meant I saw the black crescents beneath

your eyes and I hope whatever keeps you up at night

quietens; that a blanket of healing will keep you warm.

I meant you deserve happiness and joy and I know that is cliche

but I want that for you and I do not even know you.

I do not even know you but there is something about a stranger,

— someone that does not know us — that propels our curiosity

like skipping stones; their ripples more elusive than stillness.

I meant I want to hear you laugh.

I meant I want to hear you cry.

I meant I care.

I meant lets go somewhere, drive through the countryside,

find an empty café, share everything we are too afraid

to tell the people that know us.

Then let’s say goodbye and never meet again.

Instead of “have a good day”, I’ll say “have a good life”

and mean exactly that.

—  aribcagesymphony,  To The Stranger I Said “Have A Good Day” To
Looking back, I can’t remember the truth. I blew everything out of proportion so I could feel the hurt and betrayal and write about it in vivid detail. It was my own method of torture. My own undoing; and I enjoyed every second of it.
—  c.j.n.