Having a midlife crisis and dying my hair blonde, bye. ✌️
Having a midlife crisis and dying my hair blonde, bye. ✌️
You’re in love again.
I know this because you used to look at me that way
and your hands are bruised
from holding her too tightly.
you don’t cut your teeth
on her razor blade tongue,
don’t choke on the smoke
in her lungs
or the alcohol clinging to her breath.
I know you love her more
than you ever did me.
Her hands shake when
she touches you,
she doesn’t keep a steady heartbeat
and a sense of self-defeat.
You tell me she sets your heart on fire,
but every time I came towards you
with a fire in my eyes
you tried to snuff me out.
I am a fire of a girl,
and I will
Girl on the bus, seven years old
passed out in her mother’s lap
with tired eyes from staring at
the tops of Ferris wheels and
cotton candy machines.
There’s so much tired in her eyes,
just like mine
and one day she will not wake up
full of life.
Old man with grey hair and a soft smile and gentle eyes,
hands that know how to work.
I bet he collects things,
stares at pennies from 1942 through a magnifying glass,
wondering where the world went wrong.
The boy in front of me,
with a polo hat and coke.
I bet he plays soccer, basketball maybe,
spends his nights across the table from his mother
and never stops talking
so he can forget about the empty seat beside her.
Three stops later:
a boy, nineteen,
grey Adidas bag
and eyes to match,
tattoos and a flat-brimmed hat
arm in a sling from falling
off his skateboard last week.
He’s running away from something,
he’s got cities and street signs in his eyes
from all the roads he’s traveled
trying to get away from himself.
Two seats up, one to the right,
a husband and wife
with three kids, all grown up.
They were in love once, but now
they’re not so sure.
Woman with bruised knees,
gardener’s hands and plants stemming
from her fingers.
Two couples that spend weekends on boats,
talking about who they’re going to sue next,
talking about this town like it’s the greatest thing
instead of half-dead and burning down.
this is drowning in rum
and regret and
swimming back to shore
it’s clothes on the floor
and pressed against walls
hands around my neck
i swear it’s okay
it’s words muttered
“you’re a fucking slut,
you like that?”
it’s hands at my throat
it’s okay it’s okay
it has to be
I currently don’t have anything published, though I am working on putting together a manuscript and will hopefully self-publish something by December/early 2015. For now you can check out all the writing on my blog here.
If I close my eyes,
it’s almost New York again.
It’s screaming over broken skylines
to let you know
the ghosts in the floorboards
and the voices in the halls
followed me here from
the coast of California.
When I open them, it’s still Kansas —
empty land with no substance —
and reminds me too much of
the last boy I loved.
My suitcase sits in the corner,
and I know that in spite of
having traveled alone
I’m not the only one here.
There are memories
stitched into the clothes
he pulled off of me in March.
The soles of my shoes
remember every crack
of the sidewalks we walked
the night we tried to run away.
My skin burns from the scars
his fingertips left,
my chest aches
because I know
home is not a place,
just a feeling that I left
on the train from
I’m not really sure how I started to get popular, it definitely didn’t happen overnight. I never had many followers until these past few months, despite having this blog for over a year. I only started making this a strictly poetry blog when I started writing around March, and before that my blog was just a mess and I was constantly changing themes. I tagged my posts with things like “poetry,” “spilled ink,” “poets of tumblr,” and other related things to help people find my work. I reached out, talked with other writers on tumblr. I did some collaborations and tried to be active on my blog by posting a few new poems a week. Don’t be afraid to reblog some of your own work sometimes, because obviously not everyone is on tumblr at the same time.
My advice to you is to tag your work, follow other poetry blogs, and don’t get discouraged if you don’t immediately gain followers. Trust me, it takes time. Ask other people in the tumblr writing community to check out your blog, I know I am always open to reading other writers’ work. I would really recommend having an all-poetry blog and then if you’d like to, create a more personal blog on the side. It makes it much easier to stay organized.
I wish you the best of luck! <3
The first boy I kiss doesn’t write. He doesn’t understand why my bedroom walls tell stories that are sixteen years too long. He does not write novels on my spine with his fingertips.
The next boy I kiss calls himself a fan of mine, and I find him flipping through the notebooks in my childhood bedroom, reading the words that I throw at strangers but am too afraid to say out loud. My stories are bigger than me, and I fear that if I let them out I will become nothing but a hollow girl with ink beneath her fingernails.
The next boy I kiss tastes like typewriter ribbons and yesterday morning’s coffee. “You’re a writer,” I say, “I’d know those shaking hands and tired eyes anywhere.” We spent the night writing sonnets with our tongues, but when I read love poems written to her over his shoulder, I quietly buttoned my shirt and left, not a single sentence trailing behind me.
The last boy I kiss is the reason why I stay up until four in the morning spilling ink instead of blood, and I read love poems to him over the phone despite my shaking hands and unsteady lungs. We sat on rooftops chain-smoking and screaming poetry at the sky, but now I spend Friday nights with packs of matches until every word I wrote about him falls like cigarette ashes.
1. He kissed me, told me I tasted like coffee and innocence. I laughed and tried not to think about the fingerprints that are left on my bones from the last summer spent tearing myself apart as a form of self-defense.
2. When I turned the lights on, he stared straight through me, a hollow ghost in the two o’clock light. “You have eyes that could kill,” he says. I nod and look away, not admitting to him that that’s why I spend Tuesday nights staring in the bathroom mirror at the local bar.
3. We sat by the lake and drank cheap wine and pressed our lips together like our mouths were stars and the only way we could say “I love you” was by spelling it out in constellations. I tried not to think of her, but when he whispered my name again and again I could still feel hers on his tongue.
4. When he mumbled “You just don’t want to fuck me because you’re afraid of getting too close,” I laughed, stood up and buttoned my shirt. “I don’t know how to get attached,” I said, “You’re the one who should be worried.”
5. We were skin on skin, the low rumble of three am re-runs to keep our sighs company. “I think I love you,” he said. I handed him his phone with three missed texts from his girlfriend. “I think you should go.”
When I think of love,
I think of the door to your bedroom
with its chipped white paint
and your dark blue sheets
that sat bunched up in a pile
at the foot of your bed.
I think of your window panes
overlooking the quiet city
and the way the moonlight
touched your pale skin
just as softly as I did ,
and of the cold floors beneath our feet
as we ran across the kitchen floor.
We walked to 7/11 and bought energy drinks
that we drank on our walk home in between cigarettes
and kisses that didn’t last long enough.
I think of the way we sat there
just looking at each other
and not saying anything
because for the first time we didn’t need to,
and when I think of love
I have to gently remind myself
that you were never mine, but hers
and that she felt the warmth of your skin
long before I did
and that it’s been a year and a half
and she still is.
Why thank you. :))))
1. You’re seventeen again, ripping girls’ hearts from their chests and spitting them out when they’re staring at you on the bus ride home. I bet you still leave scars on bone marrow with your touch and leave them torn apart and shaking at one am on Tuesday mornings.
2. The night before your wedding, you’re going to take five shots just to make sure that you won’t choke on my name when you tell her that you do, you do love her, she’s the one, she always was. I was your three am call and your six am goodbye, the skin you touched when you couldn’t sleep and the hand you held on cracked sidewalks and empty streets. I was the one you drank cheap champagne and sat by the lake with when we couldn’t sleep and the one you kissed in your backseat, but she was always the one.
3. I’m sorry that I set your lungs on fire when I only wanted to burn down the only place I’ve always lived. The ghosts in the walls were keeping me awake and I didn’t know how to escape the voices clawing at my skin other than to drown myself in poison.
1. Because a stranger’s bed felt more like home than your arms ever did.
2. Because two years of tearing myself apart every time you asked me to put a hole through my lungs until I forgot what it felt like to breathe without your hands around my neck.
3. Because I poured myself into you until I collapsed on the floor and was carried away in flashing lights.
4. Because you didn’t understand why I was pouring poison down my throat to rid myself of the taste of him.
5. Because in spite of all this, you will still find me texting you when it’s two in the morning and my hands won’t stop shaking.
6. Because in spite of loving you with everything I had, that was not enough.
You are a fire of a girl
with a mind of gold
and a heart that was sold
when your insides
turned to ash.
You don’t feel like home —
you are three am rooftops
and cracked sidewalks
beneath bare feet.
You are black smoke
and tired eyes from
too many nights spent
filling your lungs
with the ocean in your chest
and calling it self-defense.