Tag: poesia

they told me i couldn’t 
hallucinate without
the LSD, 
that i don’t really hear the
wind whisper to me.
but this isn’t
a bad trip. i really do
have nightmares about
my own goddamn mother. and
sometimes i swear the sky isn’t blue
so much as it is the absence
of red. and sometimes
all the speaking i do is just
in my head and
the cars driving by sound like
my best friend committing
suicide after
eighth grade graduation.
this isn’t a bad trip.
i’m telling you, the ghosts
still speak even after
you’ve lost the ability to hear
them. 
i am stuck
in this dimension that
you only visit to vacation,
and let me tell you,
you’re never here
when it rains.

this isn’t a bad trip // a.s.m

first,
they are soft: a feather
grazing the inside of my
wrist. then they dance
with mine, two bodies pressed
closely together,
swaying in synchronization.
then,
they are a blanket: light
but warm, hugging
me close, keeping me safe,
blowing air into my
lungs, singing quietly
of an adoration i can
feel. a nibble
of a desire to taste
my entire being.
i savor
the way your hunger feels
on my tongue.

when you kiss me // a.s.m

it’s so cold out here,
my bones are vibrating.
my thumb seems to have forgotten 
how to flick a lighter, 
but i don’t feel the icy tongue
of the wind on my skin. 
i am half-cooked: well done
on the outside, but raw
in the core. perhaps
all i need is a cigarette
to light me. but i know fires
never last on the coldest nights;
even the brightest flames
eventually die.
i can’t hold this
damn bogie still enough
for it to
kiss the flame; the moons
of my fingers are turning purple
and the rawness is
creeping to the surface.

i am still raw in the center // a.s.m

i think perhaps
small bits of my
heart are eroding
off and being
carried through my blood
stream to my brain because
i’ve been having trouble
separating the two
lately. i’m worried
pieces
of my heart have
taken root in the striatum
(an invasive species on once fertile soils):
i fear i may do
something stupid.

the fusing of heart and mind // a.s.m

your hands 
on the outer walls of a mountain 
you are about to climb into,
dig your hands within
the soil. feel her move
beneath you,
hear the wind scream his name. 
hear it echo in the distance,
hear it slowly begin to fade.

climbing mountains // a.s.m

you’re too young to be hiding
in the closet
full of clothes your
mother bought you. 

you’re too young to 
hate yourself so much
that you dream of hiding
in there forever, just so you
never again have to wear a dress
on Easter. 

you’re too old 
to be living as anything but
what paints your stomach lining. 
project it in color on city walls. 
scream it drunkenly off of rooftops
to the whole world, a reminder: 

your tiny planet will
never stop spinning as long as you
continue to push it.

your life is too short to be squeezing yourself into clothes that don’t fit who you are // a.s.m

Even before it hits
it is there, building up
in the depths of my ocean;
churning and ruminating
in my darkness.

When it crashes within me
this time, I gasp for breath; for hope
that I can do this alone.
For the first time you are not here
to help me float.
For the first time I must learn
to swim on my own.

Waves // a.s.m

It would be a joke
to think I could ever forget
what this day is.

This will always be
your day.

For the rest of my life, I will
fight hard daily
not to miss you, but today
I will. Today you will
flood my mind as the rain
outside my window 
engulfs the worms. 

Today I will
wallow in the regret
I have been bottling
in jars and collecting in my closet.
I will tilt my head back and
empty
every single one until 
I am drunk with self-hatred, 
projecting black-and-white images
of you on the inside of my forehead
when I close my eyes.  

Today I will
finally take the unopened gift
sitting on top of the fridge
I bought for your birthday 
last year and
throw it away
alongside the wilted
beets
I never cooked.  

I see you sitting in
the grass blowing
out the candles and I hope
I am a psychic; but how
contradictory it is 
to wish 
your loved ones well and 
hope they are missing you, 
too.

October 28th, 2015: happy birthday, leyitah // a.s.m

i was myself, once.
like i’ve been before;
a phoenix, fire of 
autumn leaves regurgitates
me. 
i find my voice in the songs
the river sings, 
memory like the currents. 
constantly moulting, but
keeping them in a scrapbook– 
moments with blank spaces 
in between 
stitched together to make
a quilt.
i decompose. 
sometimes i bloom with the azaleas
in the spring.

anatman: “I hardly know who i am. I think I must have been changed several times… I’m not myself, you see.” // a.s.m

a 19-year-old virgin,
i am broken because
the cover of ‘Cosmo’ says 
“20 tips for the best sex ever" 
and instead of it sparking
curiosity, i cringe. 

a 19-year-old something–  
something that i’m not quite 
sure of yet– 
i am broken because i am the only one 
in my group of friends 
who hasn’t given a blow job, 
i am the only one who doesn’t understand
what ‘horny’ feels like. 

a 19-year-old something: 
something i am growing to hate and
to be embarrassed of
i am broken because the words 
on the magazines don’t talk about 
soul mates or "20 tips for the best
heart-to-heart 3-am pillow fort 
conversations with your partner
ever." 
instead of wanting what is sold, 
i am longing for something that doesn’t 
seem to exist. 

a 19-year-old someone 
who has learned that
words can steal the roof off your home
and leave you
exposed
i am broken because 
they can pull you apart,
they can dissect you and stick you
under a microscope,
they can make you feel less than
whole. 

a 20-year old demisexual, 
i am learning
i am not broken because
ten letters can be the foundation
of a home, a family,
to knowing you are not 
alone. 
ten letters can help you 
find yourself.

for people who say labels are stupid: i want you to understand why sometimes they aren’t // a.s.m