When a writer closes their eyes to go to a “happy place”
They don’t picture the lake, ocean, or grandma’s kitchen
When I want to be at peace, I recall all those I’ve seen
The girl with the demitasse and the constellation tattoos
Heart broken by a man who exchanged fists instead of kisses
Pens and paintbrushes became her life- taking pretty things and making them beautiful
The perky six year old who collects fallen leaves to keep safe all winter
So when Spring comes around, he can bury them in the park
Keeping pretty things around for people to look at
The shy analytical barista with a beard and glasses
Who does long division on napkins during break
Only finding peace when stargazing with kids in the park
These people will never speak to me, or each other
But as a writer, I can connect them all
What place is happier then that?
Faint light from lighters lead the path to our hangout
Layers of paint make the carved name in the mausoleum, invisible
The ground, once littered in hushed violets, now caked under trampled glass bottles
Kids come here when they want to find others like them-
Hating themselves, but scared of change.
Their heartbeats a riot, their minds chanting regrets like an anthem
I was told God is everywhere and I wonder why he slums where his name is cursed
Sometimes I think this is a monument of his failures and
He comes to find others like him-
Hating themselves, but scared of change.
I’m tired of my body being a topic of conversation during foreplay.
The truth is, when kissing leads to touching and clothes start coming off, I get scared.
As hands cover my thighs I remember when I had the pleasure of only being ashamed of the fat on my body.
That’s an easy thing to get over because they know before they get you in bed, that you’re fat.
He got what he bargained for on that one but the most embarrassing part of my body is not visible while I’m clothed.
Tonight his touch burns me with fear as if his fingernails were claws dancing recklessly above my veins.
As soon as my legs are bare, I get goosebumps of anticipation.
The god damn tattoo draws attention and I hope he doesn’t notice,
But I feel his kisses slow down when he reaches my thighs.
His fingertips start tracing in a different way, feeling the way how scars raise millimeters above the skin still managing to stand out like mountains in Kansas.
I stop moaning in sync with his movements. I know what comes next.
Shifting up on his arms he looks at me, climbing back up my body to kiss my lips.
“I’m sorry.” He tells me, “I’m sorry.”
Having to push away the hope we’re going any further tonight, I sigh, letting out months of curbed frustration.
“It was a long time ago. Don’t be sorry.”
He doesn’t like this answer. He wants to stay up and talk about them. He wants me to tell him a story about every time I bled. Then he’ll be okay with it. He needs a reason.
I remember when I wanted people to ask. I wanted them to notice and care and pay attention and now the scars host pure resentment.
I wish I would of used the medication earlier.
I wish I would of cut more so I could claim it was a skin condition.
I wish he was blind so he wouldn’t notice
but I never wish to go back.
Ashamed of the defects but solid behind their reasons.
This is not a topic of conversation, at least, I don’t want it to be.
Not every sad man on the bus needs to comment on the lighter burns covering my arm.
I just want to be able to have sex without telling them, “Yeah. I used to cut myself. I used to burn myself. I used to rip my skin open because I couldn’t breathe or think or live without it.”
Why aren’t self induced scars as sexy as the results of last year’s knife fight?
Why can’t we fool around strategically placed silence?
Either way, you won’t want to talk to me in the morning.
Either way, the scars will still be there, I can only hope they keep fading
like your faith in me.
I never wanted to be a ballerina. I never wanted to be an astronaut. I never even wanted to be a rock star. Since age 5, I wanted to be a teacher. A shepherd. A compass.
Directing the sheep and teaching them to be wolves.
I wanted to be a pencil, a paintbrush, a muse.
Finding the kids who cry themselves to sleep and replacing their shot glasses and razor blades with this new age thing called art.
My goal in life since I knew the definition of the word was to inspire. To trigger the next Van Gogh. Not to better my own life, but society as a whole.
Like all the other dreaming children who became plumbers and insurance salesmen instead of dancers and spacemen, it all fell apart.
Acne and emptiness came hand in hand. I no longer knew who I was, and what I wanted to be became no more then an optimistic, “one day.”
My mind was once a thrift store, everything was second hand, but good quality.
Now it’s a flea market. Cheap Dora the Explorer knock offs drowning out any good thing that could possibly manifest.
I can’t inspire anything when my thoughts consist of the future and how the consequences of my life choices would fuck it all up.
Floating along, too busy avoiding the rocks and whirlpools to build the awesome waterslide I once had the courage to imagine.
What it comes down to, is I’ve lost my inspiration to inspire and that’s just sad.
These infinite efforts to ban you from my thoughts keep falling short
Earth’s twisted serendipity landed me in your arms then ripped us apart
When we’re this far, my nerves get sharp and my soul gets cold
Memories of us, haunting my consciousness as these tears drown my face
Scooting my body over, making space that I know you’ll never fill
Reaching for shadows, hugging pillows, dreaming of your touch
Endlessly trapped in this darkness, longing for my Sunshine
Wishing on every star, dandelion, and eyelash for your warmth once more
The absence of your lips on mine is the only thought under this sky
Torturing myself with the constant recall of your effervescent laughter
This patch work quilt of my thoughts won’t hush or comfort
This twisted idea of an ephemeral infinity leaves me speechless again
Now that my pen dies and my eyes droop I regrettably bid farewell
As the sun rises, you’ll hear from me but tonight this must end
*I know, I know, this is not Chameleon Circuit lyrics…but I needed to post it. I wrote this for a school poetry project and kinda like it. What do you think?*
Swirling through my head
are the thoughts of him
Probably more now
then when I saw him
I keep picturing
his so loving arms
Reaching out for me
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