you say there’s no poetry
for you, darling,
but it’s here
written in the way your words
sway me like grass
in a summer breeze, the way
my skin tingles like stars when
you say my name,
when you say
my name is magick.put your hand to my chest–
do you feel
the rhythm of the verses
beating
for you? every step,
every cell, for you,
for you and I
will never stop breathing
this poetry; my lungs
are saturated with it.
dear little egg, you’re
going to open your eyes
for the first time in a white
room, not knowing that
my childhood home is now
underwater. and when
you are older, i will let
you run in the back yard
without shoes on, but
you will never know the comfort
of sinking into healthy
soil. you will never understand
what it means to make a mark on
the earth that does not hurt
it.
seven years’ worth of leaves
will still be decaying, and
i will not know how to explain
where they came from.
i will not know how to explain
to you that other beings used to
live here, too, or
that there was once another planet
underneath a green canopy and
in autumn, the skies would
bathe in fire.
inhale. exhale.
inhale oxygen. exhale carbon dioxide.
inhale oxygen exhale carbon dioxide.
inhale oxygen inhale carbon dioxide exhale oxygen inhale carbon dioxide inhale
oxygen exhale carbon dioxide exhale oxygen exhale carbon dioxide inhale carbon dioxide inhale oxygen inhale
carbon dioxide exhale
oxygen exhale
carbon dioxide inhale oxygen
exhale carbon dioxide exhale oxygen.
i never hear the ocean
when i put shells to
my ear. instead, i hear
His heavy breathing
from behind as
He pushes me on my bed.
on my disney princess sheets.
instead, i hear the sound
of the washing machine, loaded
with those sheets. those
bloody sheets.
instead, i hear Him
in every creak and groan in
every corner of the house,
each gust of wind that blows
when I walk home alone, every
breath I took after He broke me:
too heavy, too shallow.
hissing and foaming.
you were the first person
i ever tried to convince myself
i did not love.
you were the first time
i denied the lava in my stomach.you were perfect for me.
there was nothing about us
that didn’t make sense,
and yet i turned away.for some reason,
i have such good timing
but such bad luck, and so
i always end up in the
arms of the wrong people.
i always end up
alone again.even when i feel alone,
you are there to console me.
and i have finally realized that
if i were with you, you probably
wouldn’t have to be consoling me.
with you, i would be happy.
and that scares me.
i have changed.
like my favorite jeans
in middle school,
i grow out of some things.
i shed.
and i will continue to.
we are as fluid as the
rivers and the seasons,
nothing is meant to
always stay the same and
we are no exception.yes, i have changed.
just as every single cell in
my skeleton will replace
itself,
my heart will be new, too.
and that is okay.
the mind of a poet
is composed mainly of
metaphors. memories
tucked away in dusty attic corners,
scents that reek of sadness
and love. it is always full,
always thoughtful,
almost always awake.
conscious.poets digest more in their minds
than their stomachs. always chewing
chewing chewing on
thoughts and words. always connecting
neurons to each other,
composting every experience to
fertilize the mind.
not always fruitful, but
always growing.
i am changing,
evolving. like the earth
(i was born from), i am
constantly eroding and
collecting. i am growing
strong and breaking down
walls. I am always made of
something new.
read my words
and you will
dissolve under my skin,
you will be the spirit behind
these scleras.
you will hear the earth crying
into the arms of the universe.
you will smell
destruction.
read my words and you will
understand
me.
I’m trying to write about you but I’m not sure how to: I can’t call you ‘mine’ because you aren’t, and I can’t call you an ‘ex’ because you never were. You were an ‘almost.’ A ‘not-quite.’ A ‘what could have been.’
Silenticel 