The boys.The boy who isn’t mine brought me flowers,The boys. by chesscakes
and I placed them, with all due care
by the Zadie Smith the boy who said he was left behind.
The boy who calls me slut then holds me sweetly,
his tie lives in the shelf below the blossoms.
I keep forgetting to return it, it grows mould
alongside the boxers that other boy left in my sheets
all those years ago. I wear them at night sometimes,
and told a boy I thought I loved that they were mine.
I told him many things. I wanted them to all be true.
He makes me angry, that boy. But all my boys have lied.
My bass belongs to the boy who left his tie,
the one who leaves me in welts. I was allergic to him
on that sweaty evening after he shaved my head
and the fine hair irritated my Irish skin. I do not play.
I cannot play.
That boy wants a female bassist in his band,
but the steel strings hurt my bitten hands –
the fingers the boy I said I’d marry thought beautiful.
One of those boys, at least. All those once upon a times.
Three Weeks AloneThree weeks aloneThree Weeks Alone by chesscakes
and I have begun to remember
what I am, what I used to be.
Three weeks, and I am becoming myself.
I sleep best when I am alone,
and my dreams do not hold their old power.
I dream best when I am awake,
and my sleep does not haunt me as I fall.
You writhed in my feeble bedside light,
in those hours after dark,
but before blackness. I smoke my gentle cigarettes
in lieu of your blackening tongues; your thick exhale,
and my tightening chest. I am remembering to breathe.
Three weeks alone, and my bed is whole at night;
as my lust to engage your amnesiac game
reminds my resolve to face your cruel allure
alone; without your backbone slumping my spine.
Three weeks alone, and I am more myself
than those forged dreams you gave in promise.
CynicismWe wreaked our own sort of anarchyCynicism by chesscakes
behind those locked doors; we the anemic Warriors.
We were strong, but the bored nurses stronger,
and now I take issue with authority in petty ways,
in Achilles heeled, childish ways.
Teacher sent me her favourite Austen;
couriered to my bedroom door on a tray,
rotting with afternoon snack.
I did not read it. I was lost in my own stories.
I repented my faith thoughtlessly,
and realized what I lost only after the fact.
I thought I gave my heart away once
but it beat still, the fickle ticking.
So I gave, sold, trod it underground –
indebted to my infidelity; I couldn’t stop.
I understand well. I learned myself mindfully,
practiced speaking until I choked on airless words;
fell then stood until grazes blurred into others.
By example, I learned – greedy for control
I lost more than I bargained for.
That I gave yet retained is conceptual,
my borderline delusions crucified
in black and white Hospital notes.
we watch too much internet pornblank, online eyeswe watch too much internet porn by 0hgravity
staring through each others
that mean everything
and say everything
at near imperceptible
he's a claustrophobic,
who whispers with rustled
to restful bradycardia
on secret wishes like
all i want
is for the land
to stretch like the
sands of time
under my feet
but most days
she is too busy listening
for the train rattling the tracks
where his mind races
the only train she's heard
was faint steel static
on a youtube video)
and her eyes are looking for
his eyes full of all kinds
of natural, youthful stars
she ain't seen before
(with strong, bright names like Orion--
not paparazzi-burned Angelina)
but it's all in their head
the walls they need to climb
to live and love and be
that power outages
are not quite the end
of the world
shhhwe are lurking too close to jesus,shhh by winterkate
on the empty edge of a lightless stage,
curved nails digging into the skin of our pale palms.
he asks as an afterthought
do you believe in something holy? and i think yes,
i think this is what i believe in.
Getting Over Youyou see that self respect you have?Getting Over You by lunadoodle
all those thoughts and feelings that made you feel beautiful, unique, interesting , worth anyones time?
Take every single one, and extract them from your mind, your brain, your soul, and throw them away.
You see the gaping pit left over in that pathetic bland thing you call a personality?
It needs to be filled.
Fill it with hatred, if not for the one who broke your heart, then for your feelings for them.
Even hatred for yourself will do.
Now, deep within the poison you have poured into your soul in sickening treacle thick waves, bury your heart.
Coat it in the hardening slime, and take those shattered pieces that you so treasured, and fit them in the best you can.
Almost as good as new...