Tag: spilled ink

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.

i hope we’ll be living with windmills // a.s.m

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.

the earth’s breath is getting warmer // a.s.m

with her, it’s like art. 
it’s wanting to know
every single detail about her
down to what she tastes like,
down to what she sounds like
when she’s begging.
down to her dirty little secrets.
down to the parts of herself
one can only uncover beneath the
sheets.

sex // a.s.m

i found you
three days after you died.
i walked into your office and
found you hunched over your desk,
your face deteriorating
into your coffee mug.

i picked you up and threw you
over my shoulder.
your knuckles dragged on the sidewalk
the entire walk home.

we wrapped you
in all your favorite scarves and
put you in a coffin
filled with salt-water taffy.
while they sang ‘der voghormia,’ i growled,
and the sky echoed me.

i growled
at your scarves and your
salt-water taffy and your
face. for the first time
in years, you looked peaceful.
i growled and growled until they
started shoveling the dirt in.

the sky boomed on the drive home.
i saw your face in the windshield,
contorted into a sneer, your eyes
glazed over, your nostrils flared.

your face in the ground,
so pale, so silent, so peaceful.
so peaceful.

der voghormia // a.s.m

if you saw me today, 
would you still think
i was beautiful? 
if you saw my shaved
head and trembling hands, 
would you still 
not stay? 
if i walked by you
now, in a shirt and slacks, 
would you even realize 
you had kissed these 
unpainted lips? 
if you saw me today, would
you be grateful you left
me?

transition // a.s.m

take time to comb through
your soul, to really look deep
into it– where you just begin.

you’ve collected so much over the years:
sights, sounds, scenes, and smells.
it’s starting to get a little bit crowded
in your mind– it’s hard to make
any sense of who you are. you’ve collected
more than you can absorb. 

take time to comb through
yourself and choose
what you love, value and
what makes you smile.
keep those within yourself and know
you are what you love. 

take time to comb through
those things that are dark and
heavy and make you sad.
really look at them, don’t
ignore them.
let them pinch you, let them
remind you. let them teach you,
but do not let them draw blood.
keep the lessons they’ve taught you,
but do not let them stay.

it is important to,
every so often, remind yourself
what things you are and
what things you aren’t so that
you may let go of everything
you are not or no longer want
to be.

spring cleaning // a.s.m

i want you to know that
most of the time i am nothing
more than lost moments. 
i am many things that are not myself
clumped into a soft vessel: bits and
pieces of surroundings i’ve vacuumed 
into my being. i will always be 
collecting seashells. and though my
vision may change, i promise
my laughter will never be stale, my
kisses will never be forced, and
no matter who you evolve into, 
i will love you.

to whoever you are and whoever you end up becoming // a.s.m

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.

you’ve changed // a.s.m

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.

inner workings of my mind // a.s.m