This isn't Going to Work, is It?
An anthology of poems I wrote while in a relationship that was doomed to fail, recorded here in chronological order from the beginning to the end~
A butterfly in a glass jar
doesn't flap its wings to escape
because its prison isn't a spider's web,
nor is it stuck in beeswax.
Its trap is your love.
In its vanity, it never wants to leave.
In its heart, it longs for a return to freedom.
Their poison is in my blood
and I worry there's no saving me.
Their stingers are quills in my heart
and I'm numb
but it hurts
it hurts you
it hurts me
this viral venom they leave
the aftermath of the wasps.
The thing about my heart
is it was built to bleed.
It was built to break.
And it was built to keep pumping.
The thing about my eyes
is they are built to weep.
They were built to close.
And they were built to see.
The thing about me
is I was built to fall.
I was built to hurt.
And I was built to stand up.
I froze my heart once
to keep it preserved.
But I thawed it in the microwave
and it hasn't been the same since.
It's mushy and collapses at the lightest touch.
But when I see the inside,
it's cool and crystallized!
I thought I was so clever,
doing myself a favor.
But what is there to do
with a freezer burned heart?
I've never been good at treading lightly
but sometimes
I stand very, very still
and let the silence surround me.
In the morning they'll find me,
stiff limbs
blue face
suffocated
silent.
The clock strikes twelve.
But I barely hear it,
my ears are tuned to my heartbeat and your voice
as you tell me
the clock strikes twelve.
I open my eyes and it's too dark
I can't tell where you are
because your eyes spark with neither compassion nor malice when
the clock strikes twelve.
The knife does though,
it glistens with blood and tears,
flashing every time
the clock strikes twelve.
You haven't made the first cut but
I curl into my stomach,
because my stomach is where I keep my soul
and it felt the cut from the first time
the clock strikes twelve.
I can tell this is a magic knife
because when you cut me,
I can tell it cuts you as well.
At this point, I'm not sure which of us
you came here planning to hurt.
The clock strikes twelve.
But I can't hear it.
There's blood in my ears
and it blocks out the noise as
The clock strikes twelve.
I smell candle wax.
Some of it drips on my skin.
It forms a second layer.
I feel stronger, but I still jump when
the clock strikes twelve.
The wax cools over time
as much my skin now
as ever before.
I take a step into the moonlight the next time
the clock strikes twelve.
A being of wax and flesh like my
cannot play with fire.
But I never appreciated the warmth then
so I crave it when
the clock strikes twelve.
The moonlight highlights my vice;
a being of fire.
No knife does it carry,
its eyes compassionate and steady even though
the clock strikes twelve.
Even as my wax melts away,
leaving my bloody,
I creep toward the flame
ready to turn a new page, but--
the clock strikes twelve.
They say that lis'ning is an act of love.
If that be so, then say, sir apathy;
Could there be stories writ by gods above
that I could tell to end this agony?
If words were stars that fell down from the sky,
so precious we would never squander them,
you'd gather mine like pebbles with a sigh
and wonder when these rocks will turn to gems.
I hid my heart inside a shooting star
in hopes I could find yours among the clouds
but you don't wish upon the sky so far
and I can't hear your voice, I'm far too loud.
If I can only love you with my ear,
then cut away my tongue so I can hear.
I tell you I love you
to the tune of your favorite song
as you list off the cars that pass by.
I give you a gift
and you accept it
and I'm happy
because you're happy.
I hold you as you fall asleep,
so you don't notice
when I get up again
and write bad poetry about how lonely I am.
You tell me you love me
in a language I don't speak
but because you're sincere,
I'm supposed to know what you mean.
It hurts your shoulders to hold me
so you wrap my arms around your body
as though the meanings are the same.
You wake when I leave at night
to ask if I'm okay.
But how do I tell you
I want you to listen
when I have nothing to say?
You ask me what I want
and I freeze.
You want me to ask for something easy.
A book, a movie, a toy.
But I can't lie.
I want you.
your eyes
your ears
your mind
your body.
I want you to see how much I work,
appreciate how much I give,
read my poetry,
ask for my stories,
love me in my native language.
This isn't my first winter
but somehow, each one seems colder than the last.
The frostbite doesn't have time to thaw
before its iceified once more.
I would beg you for a winter coat
But you don't seem to realize it's cold.
So I suppose I'll just stand here and shiver
until spring finally comes
or I'm buried in the snow.
Reading strangers' poetry
like it's penned in your blood.
but you won't hear the words that speak to my soul
and I suppose you'll never understand
how it feels to be alone.
Not in the mirror
or the portait.
Not on the camera,
not on the TV.
I keep looking and looking
I've forgotten how to tell
what distinguishes you from me.
I am a delicacy.
Marbled flesh may never be beautiful but
it is the best to devour.
Slow moving, never learning, never understanding
my marbled meat is tender
easy to eat
like swallowing silk.
A subtle sweetness;
the repressed urge to cling to loved ones
and squeeze what affection they have for me away.
My need for validation
a background subtlety
that adds to the dish.
My inability to accept criticism
even where it truly does not exist
adds a hint of spice to every bite.
My fear is sour
my resentment a fading bitterness
my unstoppable tears a salty marinade
the intensity of my joy
a pat of butter
my capacity for love
the garlic therein.
So eat up, friend.
My desperation to get it right
means I won't even complain when you bite into my flesh
so long as you tell me I'm tasty.
I imagine a gilded tongue
rubies dropping from my speaking lips
value streaming from each syllable.
But you listen to me
like bugs squirm between my teeth
and snakes bite through my breath.
And so I shut my mouth
so the sapphires don't turn to rodents
when they're sullied by your judgment
And so what if there's glass in my heart?
What, do you expect me to pick it out?
Do you think digging through tender flesh
with your sharp, glinting tweezers
will fix me?
The glass is not tied to the shadows
the shadows are not causing the rot
the rot is not making me bleed>
The glass is not the only symptom,
it is not the only culprit.
Leave me be.
Let my body scar itself.
My spirit has become lead since I met you.
The wind in my sails has stagnated
and I have fallen into the bottom of the ocean.
And yet
In your eyes, the fire's warmth.
And I, the moth drawn to it.
I need your love
like I need water to drink
and I don't know how to resurface
because all I want is the flame.
You stand here before me,
soft eyes gazing as sunlight reflects off my skin.
Gentle eyes caress me
loving gaze travels my body.
"you're beautiful," you say,
tucking shining strand behind aluminum ear.
As you discuss hair the color of teak
and ocean blue eyes, I wonder.
When you gaze at me,
caress me, cherish me;
are you searching for features beneath my glassy skin?
Or are you enamored of how you see yourself,
reflected in the mirror I've become?
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The thing about my heart,
is that it was built to bleed.
It was built to break.
And it was built to keep pumping.
The thing about my eyes,
is they were built to weep.
They were built to close.
And they were built to see.
The thing about me,
is I was built to fall,
I was built to hurt.
And I was built to stand up.
0 notes
Sea Glass
Ice Water's electric bite jolts me from my fate,
launches me to anchor,
fills the sinking ship.
Skating on the surface, I try hard to forget.
As broken glass I'm brittle,
but there's nothing I regret.
Wave-tossed, salt-smooth,
shattered, shaken,
beaten, broken,
found, reformed, and made again.
No more a creature of sharp edges,
I am smooth, a glittering treasure in the sand.
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