You

Pulled

out my glass-heart,

Cracked

my solid brain,

Took

my skin, a new cloak,

Stole

my potions,

my emotions,

Tore

my face,

a once beautiful mask, into something hollow,

Used

my muscle,

Snapped

my bones.

and

All that's left

is

something

broken.

A shell.

A hollowed out

glove,

cave,

version,

of

myself.

23.7.2020

It is always the tone.

Sad broken ghosts and

demons that live somewhere

in my jumble of neurons.

I give them the pen

and let them run until

their blood is clotted on

the page.

A cloudy Tuesday on the cusp of

a new decade. Tourists and fools

clattering along the sidewalks as

I sit, coffee steaming and cursor

blinking.

Stoking the flames with dead

spirits and cackling ghouls

has been my twisted muse

from the start.

#poetry #poem #sadpoetry

My body is winter. Covered in thick, white blankets. It’s soft and mushy. You want to touch it. To mold it. To play in it. But those who carry on for too long will fall victim to frostbite. Vengeance. My body— the one I’ve been inside of for too long— has windows. The outside reflected in dark pupils. I see summer outside and imagine dancing in the sun. But my body is winter. Stiff. Cold. A sharp chill runs down my spine as I look down and see the flesh. I hold it, pinched between my thumb and pointer finger. I imagine taking a knife to it and cutting off the excess. But only in the winter, when nobody will notice the scars. In the winter it’s okay to hide. It’s okay to stay inside. To be sad, but only in private. A deep depression washes over me. I combat this virus, which attacks my body, in the only way that I know how. I write. I write a new story for the winter. With my body underneath the covers, I write.

We spent that night

Pulling at the moon

So close

To the words of poets past

Singing for the sun

In daring voices

Words all our own

To the whispers of dawn

Too timid to come too soon

We spent that night

Talking about life

And somehow

We changed the world

The intentional grid like configuration of the streets of Manhattan is referred to as the Commission of 1811. The commissioners revered their design because it combined 'beauty, order, and convenience'. However aesthetically pleasing, the formation has a way of assaulting every New Yorker and wanna-be New Yorker alike. This assault takes place when the never ending streets serve as wind tunnels that violently whip winds through the streets and deliver what feels like literal slaps to the face.

This story happens to be about a particularly slapping wind in September. One that felt less like a slap from a drunk girl at a barcade in Williamsburg, and much more like the lasting sting only your mother's hand could produce.

Like the one I received when I was sixteen, and I told mine that she was weak. Weak for staying with my father when she knew he was sleeping with other women. It wasn't the slap that hurt. It was really just watching the single tear roll down her cheek and hit the linoleum. It crashed to the floor with what I presume to be the same force of a brick hitting concrete after being dropped from the top of the Empire State building. At the time it only hurt because I made her cry, now that slap hurts for a different reason.

It's five years later and I'm standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy I'm sure I love. He's smoking a cigarette. Malboro Red, actually.

I'm staring down at my boots. They're suede and have a pointed toe. Wearing them makes me feel like I'm cool enough to be standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy who's smoking a cigarette.

I was so focused on dodging the wind and convincing myself I belonged there, that I didn't hear him the first time he said, "hey look, we aren't exclusive or anything are we? I've been seeing other people."

I looked up, and he blew cigarette smoke into my face. I inhaled it. It felt like my father's mistakes and my mother's devastation crowding back into that pit in my stomach.

On exhale, without a second thought, I shot him a cool girl smile and said, "yea, for sure, me too.".

When I was sixteen it was so easy to see how my mother was wrong and the reasons she was weak. Even still, that night, I knew what I did was necessary. For the men of my commission I needed to make sure that I act orderly and remain convenient, so that I can be beautiful.

But by saying those words I had reduced myself to less than. I melted into those boots. I laid myself flat, preparing myself for the slaps of my future. The slaps from the city I love and all of my sort-of boyfriends to come.  

when softness surfaces within warm skin

when words become whispers on wet gentle lips

when hands are held in admiration of strength

when thoughts are shared through a silent glance

when love cradles intimacy upon soft sheets

you will find me there with my heart laid bare

wrapped in the simplicity of steady breath

innocence beyond any measure of mind

souls melt and fall slowly into lucid dreams

perfection revealed through the calm of our eclipse

We dance along lines of fine white powder, 

swaying back and forth

between beauty and chaos.

With you at my lips,

we stood over empires.

Pull me back like waves over sand,

and I'll breathe you in till I see stars.

Slip chains around my wrists,

and I'll cherish them like jewelry.

Sink into my clothes,

my skin, my bones, 

and I'll fall in bliss upon my knees.

In morning light,

I'll see nothing but ruins

until I breathe you in once more

like fine white powder.