Are you here to thank me for a comment, or ?
The best thanks you can give me is having a look at my gallery avalaa.deviantart.com/gallery/.
i would do anything to get you to love yourselfi know your type, i’ve seen them around hereMisfitableGrae
before, browsing through my poems like
you’re flipping through vinyl records, trying to find
that one disc you were listening to the first time
he leaned over and kissed you.
the only way you’ll ever be able to love yourself
is if he leans over and kisses you again, is if someone
tells you about the seven wonders of your soul, if
someone sits down and writes a list of all your beautiful
fault lines that you’ve never been able to forgive.
you want to love yourself and you want to be loved,
but i know it’s hard to believe that you’re holy,
when your hands still shake when they touch food and
your breath always quickens when you drive
over bridges and no one can look you in the eye
when you ask them if you’re beautiful.
look, you’re stardust, you’re snowflakes, you’re
the sky’s gift to us, you’re comets on a cloudy night
when no one looks up to appreciate how beautifully
Bottle of SadnessYour little red mouthGabrielGadfly
is a bottle of sadness
and you think you keep
it stoppered up,
but the cork is cracked
and the seal is loose
and you drip
little splashes of sorrow
every time you speak.
In the morning,
I wake next to your wet sheets,
your pillow soaked through with it.
It smudges on the rims
of glasses you drink from,
it tastes of salt and dusk and blue
on your lips
and even when you laugh,
it boils away and steams
in the air --
the room fills with fog,
you stop laughing again.
I used to think
you had only liters in you,
but some days I think
you have the whole deep sea.
BreakingOne day, you will open the cupboardGabrielGadfly
to find a wine glass or some Tupperware
and the world will, without warning
or alarm, roll off the edge of the shelf
and coming crashing down.
The oceans will splash onto the linoleum,
onto the rug. All the dust in all the deserts
will rain down onto the couch and coffee table,
the hills will crumble, the mountains will break,
all the windows in all the cities will shatter
and fall, a thousand dangerous miles of glass
glittering on your kitchen floor.
Everything will hush.
Exhale the breath you are holding,
and go look for a dust pan, for a broom.
I.My bones were glass blown:bowie-loon123
Crafted to curve lowly -
(un)beautifully - furling like
Imagine me transmuted, bursting through
desquamated skin. Picture my
clay-molded contours liquified
and awakened, shifted:
But I am unseasoned - grape-shelled,
guileless. Esotericism is overflowing
in my veins:
This path is as smudged as
its traveler (skidding yet
never slowed), clotted
Watch my fingers splay, breaking
from my tendons to
grasp tangible air
You can neither scorch nor
whittle me into
nail-sized hopelessness, only
Steeled, my jaw is set -
diffident, not shattered.
One, two, threeMy boyfriend watched, open mouthedprojectilewordvomit
as I unscrewed the lid of your urn,
and ran my fingers through your ashes.
Your depression, your soul dust.
I felt nothing other than
an ocean roiling beneath my ribs,
and an urge to hold the brass ossuary,
and rock you back and forth
like you did for me when I was young.
At the funeral, my uncle announced
that you despised religion.
But he left out the part
where you did believe in a God,
just that he was always punishing you.
“There was nothing you could have done”
said the other uncle.
I think of all those spent wishes,
the birthday candles extinguished for gifts,
the meteor showers I wasted on love,
the prayers offered from family friends
that are now given a little too late.
This year, I turn 22 years old.
But when I blow out the candles,
my wish won’t matter.
None of them did.
The Holes in My Palms are Not From NailsI’m not a synonym for your past girl,DSteffi
I’m not going to be the fool
who pulls petals from a flower
hoping I’d end up on the positive
side effect. The Sandman skipped me,
so I won’t rub my eyes anymore
to see you any better.
And contrary to my belief,
you were the blurred end
to a light in water-
the credits to an unknown song.
Some would dare to call you
modern art; but I know that’s just
a euphemism for too abstract
to be understood.
But nonetheless, you made it to be
ubiquitous, a tongue twister
for someone who was never laconic,
never ravenous for a plate of zany
to keep her company-
or just drive the false vertigos
to a bit of parachuting down.
No more, paper boy. No more of your force-field
paper tears you made me swallow.
You are not my flight with Icarus,
you are not the smell of earth after rain.
So lock me up in your loosely-clenched
fingers, and hope to a burning, stagnant star
the others you bit away
would want the same.