this is what he said:
your body reminds me of winter;
how your heart melts
when i touch it;
how your bones crackle
like the fire you burn
to keep yourself warm;
how your words
curl in on themselves
and your hands reach for
anything to keep out the cold,
even if it leaves others freezing.
your crimson spills
over into my
blue; leaves me stained
in so many places
i don’t know if i’m sad
or wounded —
i’m starting to think
i’m a little of both.
i am trying to understand
& maybe i do;
at least in the way
your chest falls
when i forget to tell you
i love you
i love you.
I asked you how many
freckles you thought I had
and you said
two hundred thousand
six hundred and
Have you counted? I asked
as my chin rested on your
No, you said, but I have kissed
every inch of your skin,
the backs of your kneecaps
and the tiny bones in your ears.
The waves of my fingers have crashed onto
the shorelines of your flesh
and now you will forever taste
I have divided but not conquered
for you are not something to be
won, but rather something to
be admired in the fog of forever.
Your freckles are the mark
of a painter,
a watermark to ensure
you are never stolen from yourself.
If I had to guess how many, I would say
five million, two hundred thousand,
six hundred and thirty two.
No, I haven’t counted, but,
I would gladly waste my minutes
counting the beauty
i just read something you wrote a while ago. "...i wish i could bleach myself bone-white and throw my heritage out with the rest of the garbage...." it hit me hard. i threw my phone down. my heart was wild in my chest. i found ur original post and ur tags said u thought it not very good but if poetry is measured in impact then all i can say is that was a bruiser. it knocked me flat out. thank you for writing.
i wrote that poem almost a year ago so the fact that it is still being read and felt is more than i could wish for. it was obviously a personal one but i’m so very grateful that sharing it on here means i can feel a little less alone with those thoughts - i hope you can feel that too. truly, thank you for reading. i’ve taken your words to heart <3
I called out to a blue, cloudless sky.
And from nothing came a sharp reply.
Harsh words stung like a wasp.
Hollow words came at a cost.
They said I must go on alone.
I said loneliness cuts to the bone.
I shouted into the dark, starless sky.
And from silence came a taunting reply.
Whispered words sparked salty tears.
Biting words confirmed all my fears.
They said I repel all who come close.
I said I repel me the most.
I will immortalize you
on the pages of my poem;
my poem will go beyond all ruins
and our heirs will read you
behind these lines.
the words will create
every new letter
will unravel the most mysterious
light of your eyes.
I will make up the divine lies,
and those lies
will create a chaos
in your bones.
(not even eris can disarm you).
I will choose
the blackest ink I have.
maybe this ink is made up of your tears.
they are letting out
you haven’t said.
every blur sentence I write
will be imprinted in the reminiscences of your life.
do you remember
who you used to be
before I created this verse?
I will immortalize you
on the pages of my poem.
and it will be my greatest
i will write you down on these pages; i will make you immortal // angelina s.
she said, ‘love is when i look at you and my heart does that thing it does - you know the one? where it speeds up for a split second. just a second. and then it’s calm. everything is calm. i don’t think my heart has ever beat as steadily as it does when i’m with you. and see, my bones are brittle, but you hold me and i feel stronger than ever. my lungs are weak but you let me breathe. my head is full of fog but my thoughts are never as clear as they are when i’m thinking of you. love is the way you hold my hand and i know, without a doubt, that everything is going to be fine.’
For a while, my words were bone dry.
It was like I had said everything I needed to say, like there was no point in writing if it didn’t mean something,
I felt like I had used every metaphor and exhausted my files of heartbreak.
But you, oh god, I could write about you forever.
I could write about your eyes, as cliché as it sounds, I could say how they make me feel like my chest is on fire, like every breath I take is bringing me closer to drought.
I could really go on about your smile; how it’s sort of a joke you’re always telling,
Sometimes I catch myself subconsciously caught in your web, looking across rooms at you, especially when you’re happy, somehow I think I could be just as happy only by watching you.
God, you know exactly who you are.
You are so kind that it terrifies me, and I’m nauseous every time I imagine you saying my name, holding me, even thinking of one kiss I think I’ll fade into watercolors.
My heart is beating even now, even thinking about you, even writing about all the things about you that make me feel like maybe I could learn what happiness was.
Lately it’s felt like there’s something there, even though you don’t even know me.
You’d call me an acquaintance; I’d call you the most fascinating boy I’ve ever let crawl into my words.
Maybe you’re fire, maybe I’m only getting closer to hurting myself with my fascination, maybe you aren’t who I think you are, maybe you’d laugh if you knew I thought you were jazz music in human form, but oh god,
I don’t think I care anymore.
Oh god, I could write about you forever.
I’m so good at ignoring my feelings but I can’t ignore the fact that your laugh has become my new favorite sound// f.g.a
You said you’d always be there for me when I needed you most, but right now I need you more than anything and you’re not here. Every bone in my body is aching for your touch, crying out for you. My breaking heart is screaming for you but you can’t hear me. Where are you? Why would you promise me something that you knew couldn’t be kept? Why did I try to convince myself that you wouldn’t break me? Why?
They said to write something true so this is a story about a girl who is in love with a girl who sells drugs. This is also a story about skeletons and closets and the intersection of the two, and my mother and her mother and how my bones still ache when it is cold and windy at night and I am sleeping alone. This is a story about stitches and painkillers and summer magic and witches and high school and trying to peel away the flesh to find the bone underneath.
Fuck this. Fuck you, fuck me, fuck this poem-that-is-not-a-poem.
What I’m trying to say is I miss you. What I’m trying to say is I still love you. What I’m trying to say is you scare the shit out of me.
What I mean is I hope you’re well. I called your mom and she said you were in treatment, and I hope you stayed. What I mean is I deleted all the pictures of us on my Instagram, but when I saw that you did too I wanted to cry. What I mean is you changed your phone number and I felt like someone punched me in the gut.
I guess this is it, then. There’s a chalk outline of both of our bodies on the sidewalk and we’re standing there arguing about what to tell the cops.
I know they said not to make homes out of people but not a single bone in your rib cage rattled when the storms came rolling in, and maybe that’s why when our world collapsed, I dug my nails even deeper into your back- because even with all the dust around us, your lungs still held the purest of oxygen to breathe into my body. And naturally, you did. You used your fingertips to seal the scar on my wrist; And I’ve known your lips on my skin to be softer than
the petals on the flowers in any garden. With lashes like butterflies & swirls of sunshine in your eyes, I’ll never need to go outside again.
So I know that they said not to make homes out of people but in your arms is the most at home I’ve ever been.
Tell me again about that time we dug up graves
with a shared cigarette between our teeth
and a gun tucked in my waistband
and you said “one of these days,
one of them will be mine.”
And I sunk to the ground
amongst ribbed bones and melt flesh
and hang myself around the earth
tasted it wet and stale and salty in my hungry sobs
hooked under my tongue and coiled between my teeth
and I trapped the soil between my bloody knuckles
pressed my palms flat in it and felt it crack
and I cried and said “then it better be today”
and you kneeled in front of me
– there was whiskey on your lips
the grey sunshine bitter on the tip of your mouth
and I ran my tongue along it
drank it all up and nursed from it
until all I could taste underneath
the saliva and beer and hollowed smoke
was that last breath you fed me
when I pulled the trigger.