run away with my love, but not my heart.
run away with my love, but not my heart.
i still loved you when you were broken, when the light beneath your cracked ribs illuminated into my darkness. i tried to grab onto it, hold it like a tooth i’m not ready to give up yet, but the glow made your face burn amber when i held you close and I remember. i remember the cigarettes you smoked and the way you exhaled artwork; the way you cupped my face in your hands like running water and whispered, “we’re as young as we’ll ever be.” it’s two a.m. and i still remember those words, those words that held more truth than the memory. sometimes it does that, you know? sometimes the only things that even feel tangible anymore are your galaxy eyes and the songs you used to cradle me to sleep with, and it’s enough. it’s enough even though it feels like it shouldn’t be, like everything is raw and fresh like a healing cut, black and blue like the bruises you stole. it’s monday and i feel broken and gleaming, but now it’s tuesday and i feel whole and hollow, but it will be ok; it will be okay because i told it to do so.
the way i am
as i watched her weaving a ribbon through her french-braided hair, it reminded me of my thoughts so jumbled up and tangled like thread spools in a sewing kit. i’m trying to unravel them, but it’s too difficult to keep them from spilling over the edge, from dribbling out of mouth before i can catch them in my spiral-bound journal where no one dares to peek. i’ll sneak them glances from the residue on my lips, bits and pieces of stories and prose blurring together from my tongue. they’ll try to patch them together with the string from their ripped jeans, try and elucidate the words beneath my soft-spoken soul, but my secret cities flash their lights, blinding the passerbys like falling stars, hiding the quintessence of my awkward innocence with their morse code because sometimes i’m so shy even my hands don’ t want to be seen. they’ll never solve the puzzle i am. i’m a muddled mess with cryptic messages beneath my eyes.
she believed there was a storm cloud in her head because every time she opened her mouth, the fog would find its way out and she struggled to capture it as if it held phrases and fragments that even she couldn’t admit. there’s five mason jars lined up on the windowsill of her room in hopes of swallowing the night. she drank it once. it slipped right into the back of her tongue and she gulped in surprise, and it made her feel innocent and pretty and the boys told her she had starry eyes and she laughed because she could still feel the darkness. it crept right into her like a shadow and haunted her like a nightmare and she couldn’t shake it. she wanted to love but her words couldn’t fake it. her fingers laced like a corset but the strings knotted in middle of her gut and she opened her mouth to speak but the storm cloud breathed. she predicted all the holes, hoping to slip past them with her eyes closed, but the holes were ditches. her heart leaped while her body plummeted, landing with a crash to shatter her bones. poor girl is still digging her way out, squinting her eyes against the haze of her own sighing, but dirty fingernails and cracked knees are not what shape her and maybe, just maybe someday someone can actually love the quiet girl with a loud mind. because her cloud is pouring and she needs somewhere to collect her puddles before she drowns.
wear my skin like an overcoat
when i sigh, the earth turns. when i run my hands along my face, i feel puffy, swollen eyelids, purple and blue semicircles on delicate tissue, and dribbling, black, bold and italicized, fine print etched on pink and raw flesh, chapped and cracking from grazing teeth and ice coated thermometers. peel me apart like bruised fruit and discarded skins but don’t toss me away, don’t forget me. i’m not your monday mornings, your loose change, and lint. i’m not your bedside bible, your coffee-stained napkin, and your overgrown fingernails. “i could never,” you say, and your vowels run over me like baptism water and your consonants catch in my throat like diamond rings on a loosely knit sweater, like the wet scratch of tire treads in the rain. i nibble at my piano-playing fingers until the stitches come undone, until my body begins to burst at the seams, until you can finally love me from the inside out and that’s what scares me the most.