I know you don’t doubt my love
but I know there are days I make you wonder.
Just know that I write about it all the time.
Beneath The Aching Heart In Her Chest
Beneath the aching heart in her chest
lays the dormant soul of a poor girl put to rest.
repulsed by what she sees in her reflection
as her fingertips tip toe over each of her imperfections
that she so badly wants corrected
because God don’t like ugly, or flawed complexions
and she needs to be beautiful, in order to get to heaven
so she curses her blessings
and diminishes her imperfections
with hair bleach, contacts and cosmetics
because at sixteen, she will no longer be rejected
by the same boys that teased her since she was seven
this time her body was no longer a gift but her weapon
showcasing herself with short skirts and flaunted midsection
in the pursuit of perfection
lays the stolen soul of a poor girl put to rest
by a man twice her age who only wanted her for sex.
I find myself looking for autumn leaves
in the inervening months when summer weather is still more like spring
and the laughing chatter of butterfly wings
cause me to reminsce on a much simpler time
where I could fill a notebook
with a rhapsody of emotion
intead of burrowing my face
into a pillow inhabited by pools
of wanted attention
I effortlessly let stream down my cheeks but
never letting escape from my lips.
Her soft perfume still lingers like
winter skin before it is blessed by the rays of the summer sun.
My nostrils corrupted
by memories of a love I had forgotten with the changing seasons.
This whole not using my laptop thing…
Is working quite well… except when I need to design.
This tablet is kickass.
He had smelled like his father’s cologne
So I knew what he had to tell me was important.
I can feel your pulse,
Still reminding me
Of how badly I want to run away and never come back.
Throw it up Throw it up.
It was ironic
because as I hovered my body
over the toilet bowl
Rihanna’s “pour it up” came on the radio
and I knew that it was a sign
for what I needed to do.
The longer she speaks
the more I fall in love with
everything she says.
Pencil-cased I love you’s
I sometimes forget I’m happy
like I forget solutions to algebraic equations
where the value of x
cannot be found because
I have run out of scrap paper
far to early to pretend that
I know what I am doing
so I twirl my number two pencil
with the same hand
that once inhabited
an infinity ring
that symbolized a promise
of a togetherness that would remain
constant.
But for now I remain tackling
problems far more difficult
than pencil and paper alone
can solve.
You Bastard, I loved you. I still fucking do, though. FUCK!
we will learn from our mistakes
when it is already to late
and even then
i’ll be the one left hurting in the end.
We send each other I hate you texts
we don’t mean at all,
yet spend the entire night alone,
reading each other’s Facebook walls.
