the problem poets have is that we really just want to live
inside a poem.
we want our lives to be like the ink on pages, we want
bruises on our kneecaps and kisses on our foreheads
so we can have love and pain in equal measures
and i want to wake up with you making
pancakes in my kitchen, i want
your bags packed and your hands full
with two plane tickets, i want you to say
“i’m coming with you, we’re going on an adventure”
i want you to be as wild and full of romance as i write you
but you’re a human being and today i woke up alone
and after awhile got a text from you asking if i
needed a ride to the airport. there were no flowers
when you came for me, no interfering with the intercom
so you could read me a dumb sonnet you wrote last night
while drunk. there was only the sound of flights taking off
and lovers kissing each other over and over
until it’s kind of awkward
because the goodbye seems to stretch out over forever
and there was no teddy bear no promise ring no big send off
you just promised to call and gave me a hug, see
the problem with being a poet
is that you get all sorts of wrong ideas
about what it means to be
because you can hear music in what sounds like noise
to other people, you crave the kind of flashbang that
your words can create, you romanticize the ugly because it
makes for good writing and you drain the beautiful until
it comes undone, you forget other people need space to breathe,
that you live in the captured moment of too-perfect
impossibility, you forget that he can’t read your mind, that
she doesn’t really like your writing, that they would rather
watch sports than go out tonight, you forget that
most people don’t try to make fireworks out of
everyday life but
eventually, after writing more pages about magic
than kisses you’ve received
you mess up and
actually start to believe.
You will call me sweetheart
and I will still stumble over
I will want to know how many breaths you take after waking up
before you consider yourself alive
I will shiver when you touch me
do not be offended;
you are the warmest person I know.
he asked why I smoke cigarettes and gamble my health
but have no interest in going to the casino on Thursday nights.
I don’t kiss anyone longer than two seconds
It’s too personal.
I’m addicted to rush of addiction.
so I kiss quick and turn my head, take my shirt off and turn out the light. I skip wrapping each other in flimsy arms and pillow talk. I slip out the door in the morning and eat strawberries in my car on the way home.
I’m addicted to whispered words so I choose not to take them to bed with me. I leave them with my clothes on the floor and dust them off when it’s time to push back the covers, when it’s time to write about the girl who doesn’t know how to stick around long enough to ask what your favorite book is.
he said I love like a white oleander,
poisonous and beautiful.
he said he’d watch me leave every morning,
running from the poison that flows through my veins.
Ask the good poets if they make bad lovers,
ask the good lovers
if they give a fuck about poetry.
I write too many poems about heartbreak and longing,
and try to use the tricks
of a trade I don’t belong in
to trick you into believing in me.
I’m too many complicated sentences,
and too many simple rhymes.
I’m long lines
and line breaks,
grammatical errors and spelling mistakes,
and the smudged ink and bloodstains are still smeared across my face.
Sometimes I lose myself in the context,
I clothe myself in weird outfits,
using layouts and appearances to disguise the pointless content.
I’m overused metaphors
and misunderstood similes,
and I still like to pretend it makes good poetry.
I don’t ignore rules because I’m a maverick;
its because I’m a moron
with a short attention span
and lack of focus.
And its my inability to finish (
that finally broke us.
these are my words.
this is my hurt, my happiness.
I wear my soul on my fingertips
and invite strangers to come by and take a piece home.
I don’t need all of this soul,
I’m too many lifetimes in one person.
this is my skin.
the scar on my forehead doesn’t cover with makeup.
I was in the fourth grade when I had my head glued back shut
when I thought the blood on my shirt was poetic.
when I thought a waiting room was comforting.
I fought the doctor who tried to close my head back shut
they need to breathe.
they need to rest.”
I was in the fourth grade when I realized I felt too much.
these are my veins.
they’ve pushed me through the toughest times
they’ve pumped more courage into my heart than blood
they’ve held my strength together
when my bones wanted to crumble.
I asked the night sky how it stays so calm
I asked where it found those stars
and the moon wept,
the sun needs to breathe.
she needs to rest.”
the moon loves the sun and the sun loves the moon
but they are never in the same place at the same time.
and I think my soul is a lot like this,
I think my words twinkle all of the sad stories
while my body tries to create happy memories.
I think my words carry my burdens
and my body moves in laughs.
I hope my words and my body one day meet
so I can sleep without them keeping me up at night
trying to contact each other to say,
“this is enough.
she needs to breathe.
she needs to rest.
You are meant to fight. When you are sick, your body fights for its right to function. When you hold your breath, your body fights for its right to breathe. There are billions of tiny events—from the surface of your skin, down to the very cells of your body—that have to happen in order for you to be simply sitting here today. If your most minuscule parts haven’t given up yet,
Why should you?❞
I wish you a life scarce of forgotten memories
For I might not be there for you
when you forget
to tie your shoelaces
when you forget
your cold coffee waiting on the table
or when you forget