I don’t think my lips
The moon has stumbled to bed,
and I am more awake than a damned casket.
My words have been ground together like Arabica beans, and this is nothing short
of a refresher,
for the last few months have been a wake up call, that has left me reaching, in pain, for the phone.
I am alone now,
boxed into these four walls.
I am attached, but only to my constructs.
I have nothing more to treasure than grainy memories of happiness
in the form of love’s tension
I have everything I need to know within a backpack;
that my textbooks about psychology, and philosophy
will some how lead me to read between the lines,
where there is enough space to
draw myself a map towards
There are now four holes in my bag, one near the bottom,
where the cotton flesh has exposed it’s lining,
and there are only so many books its fragility can handle.
I have been branded as fragile.
I can’t hold a bottle of wine and a social setting together without unearthing ways to pick apart the petals of March’s wild flowers
with absolute certainty
of discarding the second last
‘I love you not’.
Your words have left me tender, your actions, in pieces.
I have torn myself into two’s and four’s and seven’s.
Each limb’s laceration, like the pages of my unlikely tradegy,
sounds like the last time you
said ‘I’m leaving’.
I am lost.
My heart beat used to palpitate to a
monotonous heart beat like a metrinome.
I was music.
But I was out of time, four octaves too high, and I could never quite find a
way of saying ‘I need you’.
My body was at mercy, I was crucified with a kiss by your door step,
all I want back are the words I gave to you.
We are the damaged goods, we are the cracked ceramics,
We are the lovers, the carvers, the fighters, and to our beloveds, but figments.
We are nothing.
But we are condemned to these mistakes, and we must
fight for more reasons, to love and to carve and to be
more than damaged goods;
to be music again.
I know I’ve fought hard to just breathe without your name
swimming in my heavy April breath,
but you’re barely worth a memory
and I will make myself forget.
The “S” word
(I wrote this yesterday, so when I say “today,” well, I meant yesterday)
Today is a Friday, which normally would constitute at least minimal celebration in the ending of another hectic week of classes. Since this morning, however, I’ve been in a bad mood. It’s sunny and beautiful, but upon me was bestowed an interesting idea with which I’ve been acquainted many times in the past—slut shaming. We were talking in my adolescent development class about how guys think of girls who “put out” on a first date—that those boys won’t date those girls because why would they choose a lady who gives them sex that easily as a girlfriend?
I’m really baffled that this is still some kind of social stigma, and that “slut” is thrown around towards men and women just because they choose to engage in physical pleasure. If there are two people (or more is fine as well, but for the sake of this argument, two) are attracted to each other, single, and safe, why does it matter how long they’ve known each other before they tumble down onto a bed…or floor, or couch, or back seat, or kitchen table? How is it different than indulging in any other pleasure together? I wouldn’t disregard a guy just because he split a huge chocolate bar with me on a first date, and I would hope that if he was any sort of guy worth dating, then he wouldn’t disregard me if our night ended with us getting pretty cozy.
That brings me to my second thought—if a person you’re going on a date with is going to go as far as deeming you “the type of person” they don’t want to be with because you were honest about the physical attraction you were feeling for them, then they probably aren’t a very kind or open-minded person anyway.
The last thing is, why would he ask her to be in a relationship when she’s already giving him sex? Well, if that’s all a person thinks getting into a relationship is for, then I guss he or she isn’t in a mature mental state, so maybe the person who had sex with him or her on the first date should be happy for all the trouble he or she didn’t waste in a shitty relationship.
We don’t have to speak of eternity with anyone else, and we don’t have to entertain notions of love. We can just lay together and hold hands until we fall asleep and reach for one another, begging to be close on every inch of our bodies. We don’t have to talk at all, as long as I can search your pools of gold and green, guarded by impossibly long lashes. We don’t have to make promises, as long as you open your arms with a warm invitation whenever I’m near. We don’t have to be anything but each other’s.
but I won’t.
The message is in your hands, and the way your fingers trace my palms and knuckles.
The phrases are on your arms as they place me where you want me to go—in your arms or bed, to be tangled up with the sheets.
The words are in your eyes, plainer than any text I’ve ever read.
But the letters and sounds that escape your lips, I fail to make sense of—they are foreign and bladed, begging me to run away from you.