in house poetry

i finally realized you and i were never meant to last
if we were, we never would have had to try this bad
but i still write you love letters on paper plates and napkins
and on paper from cigarette cartons at work when no one’s looking
i still look back on when we were sixteen and nothing mattered
when i told you i’d have your back no matter what happened
and now i’m telling you to leave and i don’t think it hurts you as much as it hurts me
now it’s all bruised and tired and ugly
but what’s never been ugly was the space you filled in me
and it’s still filled
there’s still a place in my heart that you will always inhibit
i still think you’re a magical human who just happened to make a few mistakes
(that really fucking hurt more badly than i can say)
and i know now that i never deserved what you did to me
but i always deserved you in your sun-kissed glory
and i guess i’m finally at the point where i really do wish you well
i hope you end up happy
but i am so jealous of the girl who will end up with you
because she will be so lucky
—  still wish it was me
Venus in the Houses

In the 1st: The Knight

You wear your heart on your sleeve not in sensitivity, but with bravery. You come as you are; always ready to fight for what you love.

In the 2nd: Dionysus

The melody in your heart oozes out of you as a siren song, taking pleasure in all you feel in your heart. You let the richness take over your very being.

In the 3rd: The Hummingbird

Ever-flitting, ever-flying; so envied and admired. You move impossibly fast, it takes focus to see your wings oh but we hear the beautiful music they make as you pass us by with your jeweled feathers.

In the 4th: The Envelope

Your lover is your letter, you the envelope. You carry them safely to their destination, recognizing precious words and beauty as the truth. Oh but how easily battered you can be, please bubble-wrap your loving heart.

In the 5th: The Leather Jacket

You wear your heart as a coat, whether worn or new or real or fake. You exist as a symbol of yourself you create out of your own fabric. Expression is your savior, savor it.

In the 6th: The Furrowed Brow

The worrier, the servant, the loyal. You do not let it all show, you stand poised and sure but that one little crease, that only little wrinkle expresses it all. You do not have to stand impossibly tall, sit down. It’s okay.

In the 7th: The Nymph

Either fairy or seductress, you walk lightly and nervously about. You are sweet, whispered nothings in the sunset fields; whether they mean something or not…

In the 8th: The Taxidermist

You sculpt around you in stillness and a resistance to trust and to allowing the world to move around you. Your taboo necromancy is intense and even scary, but if they looked beneath they’d see that you simply create out of what is before you.

In the 9th: The Wanderer

The free spirit full of self-destructive flightiness, unwilling to fully let go for what else is out there? You feel yourself on the precipice, not sure whether to let go and fall down down down into the wind or continue to resist.

In the 10th: The Willow

The wise beauty of movement and stillness wrapped together in harmony with all around you. That surprising snap and wit lurking in your calming vines, it haunts and provides all at once.

In the 11th: The Amphibian

Master of water and land, you can go in and out with ease, but can’t quite seem to choose which you truly want. Perhaps the company around you is enough, but maybe if you dive down deeper or climb up higher you’ll find something better than you recognize.

In the 12th: The Saved

They fall into the hot spring in the middle of the night with you, sipping wine and sharing kisses and admissions of vulnerability that drift into the night. But don’t let them drown, for they so easily can if they are not wary.

  • Ravenclaw: Bad news, I failed most of my classes.
  • Ravenclaw: Good news, I finished reading Game of Thrones, caught up on the show too, started the collection of Edgar Allan Poe, and wrote a thesis on it.
  • Slytherin: A thesis for what?!
  • Ravenclaw: Myself.
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Grenfell Tower: June 2017, by Ben Okri


“If you want to see how the poor die, come to Grenfell Tower.”

They told me “home is where the heart is.”
But maybe they were wrong.
Maybe home holds its own heart, mind, body.
Maybe it’s walking amongst the crowed, waiting to house anyone who comes looking for a place to stay.
Some are merely a bed and breakfast, while others are mansions full of luxuries unseen to most.
Some are just homes.
Three bedroom houses with a spacious backyard and enough room for a swing set.
Others have large porches for evening lemonade and trampolines for star gazing.
Everyone can find a home.
They see them pass and watch couples move in, each one an apartment, but building their dream house together.
We search until we find the perfect fit.
From broken down homes to abandoned buildings.
Two story homes to cabins.
Home isn’t wood trapping us inside,
But a safe haven we’ve found inside the arms over an individual.

(By @bbysaturn she has credits)

When did you become my enemy?

The Thing About Trauma

It’s not as easy
as being Something That Happened to You,
a package you opened once.

You will wake up in a new ZIP code,
have to wander your way home,
carry a few of the things you love
to this new place
you live in now.

& so you buy throw pillows.
You put up twinkle lights
and have a big celebration,
point at the open windows
and tell everyone who has ever seen you crying,

look,

look how I have not caged myself,
look what I have made
out of two paint buckets
and the blessing of my still-here body,

but, of course, trauma leans into the bar cart.
Spills a drink on the new rug.
Breaks off the door handle on his way out.

Trauma sends you letters,
without warning,
for the rest of your life,
usually disguised as something else— 

a medical bill, maybe,
or a box of photo albums packaged up by your father,
just so you remember
trauma knows exactly where you live—

who did you think built the house?