spillingmyink

I drove home from your house, but in the back of my mind,
as I left you behind—I was still thinking of him.
For the first time, I started to think of how it all began.
Life with this view of men.
The way I treated them.
The way they treated me. The mild hypocrisy.
They are my favorite pen, that’s always running out of ink.
They are the constant water—leaking from my sink.
They are the fish I forget to feed.
They are the over priced shirt, that I don’t really need.
They are the fifty bobby pins, I misplace twelve times a year.
They are the butterflies in heights—that hold my biggest fear.
Men hold emotion, as the clouds do the rain.
They are the simple paper cut—capable of immense pain.
They are the strike of lightening, illuminating the rain.
I am the one fighting—wondering if it’s all the same.
—  letlovelightlife

Don’t worry little flower your head will catch up soon
You will see:
It’s just one more week it’s just one more month it’s just one more year
Today is so small
So don’t worry little flower little flower little flower
Don’t tie yourself up anymore
And don’t talk to other people expecting things from them
Yes yes stop expecting things from them
Think of all the roses think of all the little yellow roses
You’ve got time
So many tiny bits of time

I'm back & this is what's been up

Often, you call me up in the morning as soon as you’re awake and you say hey how are you did you sleep well when can I pick you up wear those shorts with the buttons please for me?
And I laugh and feel light about you and I say hey give me forty minutes I need a shower
But you say no sweetheart just take a shower with me
So i see you seven minutes later, long enough for mascara and clean underwear and I’m brushing my hair with my fingers in your car and you’re waiting for me to finish so you can hold my hand while you speed around the most dangerous turn, one hand on the wheel if I’m lucky.

And there are some days these things happen and I am in love
But there are others I am an angry claustrophobic drunk and I feel sick to look at you.
Those days when I get into your car and kiss you, it is out of habit only. Those days I hate myself and you and the stuck I am feeling
The neurosis between the slant-eyed impulse to escape and the ache of injury to you.
I settle for emotional distance only and close my eyes early
face turned on instinct to the window.
I don’t know what you’re feeling, I tune you out and my volcano insides harden in that hostility
But I wake up curled around your body like a baby afraid of being dropped.
Because It’s everyday I feel alone
in another layer of the atmosphere
if both of your hands,
all of your fingers
are not on me,
touching me.

I swear

She was in my car. She was sitting on my polyester seat covers and there’s a picture to prove it, if you don’t believe me, and sometimes to prove it to myself, when I don’t believe me. Her cloth shorts bunched up against the fabric of the front seat and I don’t have to tell you how horribly I envied those polyester fibers, kissing her goosebumps as they were.

I Want You To Know

Intimacy is a spatial issue.
We don’t like to touch.
Distant eyes, arms, knees, and breaths.
Distant feelings.
We’re afraid, but we call it things like
Discomfort and awkwardness.

People who say that people grow like blisters all over the earth;
The cynics are the first to harden into stone statue callouses.
Do we hurt or are we hurt?

Hello hello hello
We are all existing in our own little shelters of love
And our own dreary pits of pain.
Craving to be the blood in someone else’s veins while quietly inflicting our own hurt.
Whirl-winds of bleached white sand
To beat and grate our faces raw again-
Red and screaming the way we were born.

We Believe In Beauty, We're Just So Paranoid

Half-healed phrases drip from your fingertips,
Tracing eyes red from lethargy. Candidly spaced spurts of graceful untruth
Slide down my lips
From my wandering tongue.
And slowly- your coward’s words find their emergence;
And you wail like a siren,
And you wince like a teenager,
And you wake every morning;
A burning wretch waiting for perfection.

A Letter to Wet Hair and Drying Ink

There was a storm last night and rainbows are everywhere- cracking the cement and wetting the sky. After the rain it’s like aging light bulbs have been replaced with pure globes of sun. The damped pavements are splashed with blue, yellow, and red lights; the skies are full of enormous clouds that look like howling animals. I’m curled like a ball in the back seat of our car, my mother is reading from Moby Dick and the countryside is flashing by us. I want to get lost in an orchard, walnut trees and peach trees and blackberry bushes and grape vines. Patches of strawberry. I am not lonely, and I think it is such a waste to be sorry that I have been missing this- this sky and this writing to you feeling, when I am in it now. My feet are tucked under my sister’s sleeping body. I am so happy here.

Tawdy

I’ve got this little bit of body and it covers me wholly.
Pushes and pinches me into being.
It is instatiable and willful and it never wants to be old,
I’ve got sheets and sheets of skin because pure matter isn’t enough.
Because nothing lasts me long enough.

People love to speak in trimmed all-or-nothing terms,
But it’s a dartboard of possibilities.
Lift your arms up over your head,
Like Jesus on his torture stake-
It’s so much more beautiful to breathe.

How Stupid Does This Sound?

It’s simply- it is simply a way to scream. If I am a poet, I am a poet who does not know how to write poetry. I don’t know, I don’t know. I want to write everything. I want to suspend everything. All of it, all of anything that has ever done anything to me. And I want to jolt the people who don’t know what they are forgetting, what they are over looking. People who don’t know what should be so obvious to them. I’m preposterous, pretentious, presumptuous- I know. And I take advantage of strangers, like you, who I meet. Because speaking to people I know- that’s intimidating. I want to improve myself. Because I write for myself, to myself. Because I live for myself. Somedays I’m my own romance, you know. I’m so sick of saying Thank You. It’s old and it’s dry and it’s stuck in people’s hands so much that it has become silly. But you should all know I’m thankful for you.

Her Colors Blooming (A poem for whatever love wants)

The atoms in me are splitting,
Great waves apart on either hand,
Pulled hard by conspiring magnetic forces-
What beauty what beauty- what perfection- what life.
What hell, happiness, fear, reserve.
And do not cry.
Breathe, and I will kiss the world away.
Leave roses under your eyelids
When they close for me
Beneath my ache of you.

Color

Everyday you walk past somebody’s lover;
Sheets over their heads at dawn,
Whispering doe-eyed and pigeon-toed even there.
Just two hours ago,
Naked in the sun with their legs sprawled,
Mimicking bird calls lazily.

He’s handing you a receipt for your carrots and milk,
You’re standing next to her in line for coffee,
Attracting a stray electric hair.

We Can't See Ourselves

People who sit still even in their dreams;
Premeditated body positions
The feet will be here and here,
The legs crossed just so,
The arms stay firmly here.
Like statues
Scared stiff of the creatures of spontaneous human passion,
Whose emotions flame-
Grass stains and flower petals in their hair.
And the statues wince,
How Embarrassing.