The first week after I left you
I found myself at the beach each morning
The first week after I left you
I found myself at the beach each morning
is dullness low in my stomach
as I lay here, watching you watch me,
wondering if this something is worth it
or just some small step away from loneliness
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“Rhyming Poem”. Full text here: http://dft.ba/-rhymingpoem
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I’m all too familiar with in-betweens, these days
You are my functional translator,
pressing your forehead down to mine
when kisses would be too much,
or holding my hips like you mean it
when I feel so papery that my ceiling fan
could torque my limbs off
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It is one thing to cultivate dreams in the dark; to focus on what makes you smile or start or shiver, and to nurture those perfect thoughts in the night. Thus cloaked, it is not shameful to indulge in imagination. Light exposes, accuses. It is different to be folded in sheets and held aloft by the…
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I think only in verbs,
verbs that are sweat-slick and raw and flushed
Verbs that echo in the retelling,
that evoke fantasy-phantom sensations
and make my thighs quiver
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Let me tell you about a perfect day.
I have a lot of perfect days archived in memory, fuzzy impressions of long mornings at the beach and my first time smiling up at the city skyline and my first drink and my first kiss and a million other tiny perfect perfects. I love to examine these days, to…
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I love to love people
whose brains are showing
Because competence is sexy
and wordplay gets me goingETA: Finished poem can be found here.
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He turns me into a coward, and
as someone who says what she wants
and does what she wants
and gets what she wants,
it’s off-putting to yield so often
He’s always known me as a fiery, mouthy poet,
a woman whose skin has never been big enough for her
He certainly won’t fall in love with her…
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I figure everybody loses two types of virginity — one the normal way, and one to Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. The first time you read those words… god, it’s like it was meant for only you. As if ‘good sir’ or ‘young man’ is your name, and Rilke is telling you that it’s okay to…
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I feel so raw and vibrant and full of longing that my skin isn’t enough to contain it — I feel my ribcage breaking and expanding and fusing and breaking all over again, until I am big enough to hold all the world and my dreams in unlimited mental space, to give each train wreck of an idea equal…
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Is that not what every little girl dreams about?
House, dogs, kids, cars,
bead-board, mortgages, crown moulding,
occasional sex with the lights off…
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Casey had lived in LA for long enough, years slowly built with three- and six-month stretches, that he had friends and favorite restaurants and routines there. He could cope with the summers and wear his scarves with shorts in the winter; he had memories tied to parks and bars, and he could show…
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I don’t know who you are, yet, but I love
thinking about you
I imagine the shape of your eyes,
the softness of your skin,
your freckles or scars or bruises
I imagine kissing you in the glow
of the Christmas lights we liked too much to take down,
even now, eight weeks after Christmas
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When I die I want a huge funeral,
head-turning and traffic-stopping,
gaudier and brighter than
anything I could stomach in life
I want my boyfriends to dress sharply,
like gentlemen, in pressed charcoal pants
and blazers with clean lean lines
and brighter ties than they’ve ever worn
I want my…
[Reblogging my original writing from my previous blog]
