Poem to My Ex, #3

I went to chapel today
for the first time
since you kissed her.
He spoke about
The adulterous woman,
how the only one
without sin,
felt no desire to cast stones.
How the desire fades, the closer
we come to God.
You are more religious than I.
You know this story,
but where is your piety now?
Pray, tell me,
did you taste peace on her lips?

I am not sinless,
but I am surrounded
by so many stones,
every “I love you.” scrawled
on paper once hot, passionate,
molten,
is now cold and dead.
Stones, so hard and heavy.
I cannot say for sure,
when I will stop
counting them, taking stock,
when my fingerprints will fade
from their surfaces.
I have not thrown them,
you know this.
But they know my touch,
and my peace approaches slowly,
but it comes.

Poem to My Ex, #2

When you are cheated on
just days after looking at rings,
you will feel shattered,
like shards of your broken heart
are already piercing all possible
arteries. It is not so. Friend.
It is not so.
Bruised but not broken,
healing will come. I promise you.
Though, you will swear you are dying,
bleeding out.
29 months of heartstrings braided together,
16 months of total and complete trust,
ripped, shredded.
You will ache for a clean cut,
the lesser to this evil.
You will not recognize yourself, Friend.
The sobs that claw their way out of your chest
will feel terrifying, animal, a complete departure
from the love songs that flowed from your throat,
your fingertips, the ivory prayers of thanks.
You were golden. And you believed it.
Your own shrieks will haunt you now.
Friend, you will mourn so many things,
so many things,
your composure being one of them.
You contained oceans you never knew,
now rushing to escape in tears.
You can never contain the pressure,
racing to fill the folds of your pillow,
stain the arms and chests and shoulders
of those trying to hold your pieces together.
You’ll swear you are drowning.
And your friends—they’ll stroke your head,
over and over
and over again.
They are fighting their own shock, their rage,
but they will keep you alive,
pump you full of love, IV’s, take shifts,
trying to keep your withdrawals at bay.

Weeks later,
your steering wheel will wear the marks
of your fists, oil stains from
your night drives.
Your tires will only kiss two directions,
East to West. West to East.
Over and over
and over again.
The pavement will have no answers for you, Friend,
but time.
Time will be your bedfellow now.
And he will not cheat you of your dignity.
You can trust him.

Poem to My Ex, #1

When you told me you kissed her,
I felt the blood leave my arms, my chest,
felt you suck the heat from my body, this final time.
you pulled it straight from my heart,
unlike all those nights you sipped it,
slowly from my edges, 
your feet against my calves,
your hands on my heating pad back.
I offered you
a second chance
and you walked away,
warm and satisfied.
You had enough,
and I was empty.

Just scheduled two performances. Woohoo!

If I had to, I could count the number of conversations we had
on a hand obsessed with saw blades,
and I swear
if I focus hard enough, 
I can still feel the weight of his body in my fingertips,
the rhythm of walking in that 6-part harmony, a Catholic waltz.

It was the closest I’d come to touching him in ten years.

imperialdalek:

kryptaria:

rembrandtswife:

This is the attitude that every creative artist needs to take.

When you’re wondering if you have the guts to post that new fanfic or to send your manuscript to a publisher, remember this.

this is my motto

(via schnidlier)

Construction

A
Book once
Convinced me my name meant “Pearl,” but no
Damn oyster
Ever spit me out, perfect. No, trial by
Fire
Gave me these
Hardened layers,
I’ll admit some are 
Just a touch darker than I wanted. I was a 
Kid
Loved by
Misery. I was
Notebooks left 
Open in
Pouring rain. I once
Quit living because I felt too
Ripped apart.
Since
Then, I have reached a better
Understanding of myself. I am
Volumes, memoirs, letters sealed with
Wax. I am
eXactly the person I should be,
Young, and slightly
craZy.

Thursday

Today my life is:

A small dose of
Bitterness, some
Caramel dissolved in coffee, feelings of
Disappointment
Even though I 
Faced a fear, or tried to at least…
Greg Laswell 
Hums from my laptop, as
If I need a quiet
Justification, a 
Kind 
Lullaby,
Mellow,
Narcoleptic almost…
Only
Poor me, I cannot afford naps today. I have to fill my 
Quota of stress, meetings, work before the
Rest, Symposium 
Seemed to think I should make more
Time for.
Ultimately though, my
Values place
Wreaking havoc on the
boXes of my agenda above other, more sane activities. My
Year is now segmented into days and hours, and those meetings… events, papers, a few
Z’s here and there before the sun come up.
 
You know how it is, 
college life.

One Version of Catch

It was the worst anxiety attack you’d had
in a while,
the one I asked you how I should handle, step by step,

"Prepare me for this," I said.

You laid with your head in my lap,
your tears becoming dark stains on my jeans.
I leaned over, set my face so close,

"Focus on me," I said.

I wanted you to feel me there,
permanent. 
I locked my arm on top of yours,
my palm to the back of your hand,
our fingers intertwined,
a flesh and bone safety bar.
I asked questions,
pulled answers out of your mouth like rope,
uncoiling anxiety laced knots from your lungs.
Every few minutes, I reminded you to breathe.

You stayed with me that night,
after I insisted.
I figured, why should we both have to feel alone,
you with sudden stops, the jarring of falling and being caught,
and me with the aftermath of courage,
of catching.
You found the ability to breathe again,
your chest opened
as if the keys to those rusty gates
finally clicked.
And then my own tears came,
because I never knew where
or why or when
I would want to hold such keys.
I was afraid they would not work,
and when they did, I cried,
and I don’t know why.

Four Hostages

I was thinking of your voice,
like champagne I could not wait
to taste
when my eyes landed on Peggy’s gun.
She’s talking about timelines now,
when I scream,
when I get released,
what questions they’ll ask during my debriefing.
I cannot remember the color of her eyes,
only her ruby red glasses frames.

This time last July,
you and I were eating cake,
and dodging gnats,
taking inventory of our sparks. 

Peggy’s giving Devin permission to be an ass to the crisis negotiators,
but I think he’s more preoccupied with the sweat dripping from his forehead. 
Melody’s chair grinds against the tile,
The Sergeant is deploying the throw phone.
Subtleties of acid are starting to climb up my throat,
I can taste it on the back of my tongue,
as if my body thinks this is real.

If it was,
I’d still be thinking 
of your voice,
of champagne.

Serendipity

I find your bobby pins everywhere,
formalities you absentmindedly drop
for me to find later.
I hope I’ll forever have opportunities
to hand them back to you,
even years down the road,
when perhaps the pins are lighter shades,
bought to match your greying hair.

I pray
I will never have to bury them
as memories deemed too painful
to hold in the palm of my hand.
Allow me to clarify,
I am not the praying type.
I stopped talking to God
the night Mary died,
you know this about me.
But,
on the night I didn’t know
if I would wake up single,
I prayed myself to sleep.
I went through the rumoured
five stages of grief,
over and over and over again,
pausing the longest
on bargaining.
I begged.

Do you understand the marks you leave?
You’ve already left?
My tongue slips into familiar grooves,
I don’t even utter the name of God much anymore.
My curls contain traces of you,
even my hands bear your scars,
and happily so.
My dear, you are worth burning for.

I’m not sure I’ve ever said it,
but I miss your poetry—
the nights we both pretended
we didn’t know what each other wrote.
Even our tension,
the uncertainties and possibilities pulled taught,
the echoing vibrations we both fought to ignore…
I miss that
just a little bit,
but I still do feel traces of those moments on my skin,
when I look down
and find bobby pins.

Dear Fellow Student

Dear fellow student,
I am so glad you are confident enough in your faith
to write “Jesus loves you,” on the inside of the bathroom stall,
but I worry we may have different interpretations of Jesus.
For example,
would your Jesus
love my girlfriend and I?
Would he love me in all my pro-choice,
feminist,
sex-positive,
liberal
ways?
Would he join me in raging against modern purity movements?
Would he protest anti-abortion laws with me?
Would be attend same-sex weddings with me?
Would he sit next to me in class and study ethical sex-work,
would he meditate, read verses of the Qur’an,
would he study Dan Dennett and John Hicks and Sharon Olds
with me?
If so, I’m glad to hear it,
I think we would be amazing friends,
but forgive me if I am less than optimistic
that we were thinking of the same
Jesus.

"Propers" by Big Poppa E, performed by me at my college’s freshmen welcome show!

(Source: schnidlier)

Homecoming

When you are gone for weeks at a time,
and we exist in 5 minute conversations—
I have a tendency to time them,
I get bored enough to start building things.
I steal away into woods
I ought not dare go,
and I harvest its gnarly branches,
twisted things they are.
I usually build a cabin of sorts,
something big enough for two.
It will burn hot.
It will burn bright.

I make weapons too,
things I convince myself you’ll be eager to carry
the next time I see you.
I spend a lot of time on these,
it takes hours to carve them just right,
they splinter on impact.
Hey, I need to keep my mind occupied, right?
Ah, but the cabin,
it comes together slowly, always slowly,
but surely nonetheless.
Conflicts I had forgotten begin to
worm themselves out of the woodwork 
like maggots.
They fall,
remind me with a tap on the shoulder of their 
sheer existence.
They are long dead, long into the process of decay,
but if I focus on them long enough,
they again gain a stench.

You, my dear, 
are not a fighter.
I know this.
But, 
give me enough time and I
can turn you into one.
I do turn you into one, 
and depending on how sleepless
my 
nights, sometimes
I even stock my own armory with shields, comebacks.
After all, I do need to defend against those weapons I so
lovingly
made 
for you.
I even rehearse, mentally of course, 
but I play out the fight,
which usually ends with me setting
all this angry wood on fire.
It’s my chance to show you how
hot, 
how bright 
I can burn.
I am dangerous in here.

Then… 
I get to count down your arrival,
keep my breathing even,
prevent the sweat from weakening the grip in my palms…

And you show up,
match in hand…
and we walk the edges of this meadow, this place
where my mind crafts citadels from twigs.
And you set the building ablaze yourself,
a light, careless flick of your wrist.
And we both watch.
And I feel warm.
And your hand is in mine.
And all I can think is
how much I would love to sit here,
plop down on a log and maybe roast some s’mores,
all while we curl up into a quilt, either yours or mine.
And you smile.
And the rest of me melts
into puddles.
I am liquid in your fingertips.

It’s a pattern, all of this,
practically a ritual.
And I must say I love the simplicity
with which you shatter
my built up battles.
You burn my fortresses to the ground
and the ash, my dear,
is sweet enough,
always sweet enough.

And now I can finally get back
to loving you.