Posts tagged writing

8 notes

april 19 12:57 AM

The first line of a poem
that I can finally move away from.

I have a mouth swollen from nature metaphors.
I am a weak writer, always talking about the ice
melting from the bottom up, about running water,
always talking about feeling cold.
I am bruising under the thumbs of academics and artists.
I will never be great in those fields. I help with their
anthologies. I sing their songs. But I have glassy eyes.
My voice is gone. I carry my tension in my throat,
gasping. I forget, hands on face.
I have lost interest in the body. I soothe myself to sleep
by the grind of teeth. I’m living at Monk’s House.
My music is gone. Where is the river?
It’s melting. I wrote it down.
The mind has an end.

Filed under journal poetry poem writing

7 notes

12:28, in a panic

Hours, hours, wrapped up around each other in tight coils. You are the rings of the glowing stovetop and I somehow have to unfurl your fiery frantic orange. I inherited small delicate hands. Let me touch you with them. You have left your mark. I have wasted you and you have wasted me.

Filed under writing journal

6 notes

20 march 2014

The days grow taller and look down on me.
The snow melts and runs away, down the drain,
except where it pools on lawns and
on dammed sidewalks.
Shadier parts still carrying ice
crack under my eyes,
violent with panic, trying to find myself,
a sinking drop of ocean
landlocked, so far from home. 

Filed under writing journal poem poetry

11 notes

5 feb 2014

I keep memories of you light against my lips. During the span of our love I learned about time. I knew to elongate seconds, to memorize the softness of your face and the sound of your smile. I never learned how to forget. Time continues to be counted.

Once you looked up at me from the floor where you sat stuffing your suitcase and with liquid eyes you said, “You are so good to me.” I bent to kiss you, completely full of love and safety and searing guilt for every pain I bore into you. I never learned how to forget. Did you?

We are both gone now, huddled back in our past lives and pretending we are strangers. Or have we moved beyond pretending? We must have. Who are you now? Have you changed much? You haven’t written to me in so long. I think the fight is over. I wonder how things would be now if I had never hurt you at all. Would my door sound different? All it says is silence.

I walk to the bus stop earlier now. It arrives on time. I don’t forget.

Filed under writing journal love

5 notes

2/2/14

How will you remember us when four letters seem ridiculous and impossible against the mountains and the long lines of airports? What will my name sound like in twenty years, if you even remember it at all? Tongue against tooth, I am homesick for you, come home. Where is home? That question again.

Filed under journal writing

4 notes

on once fearing the city

He turned his eye out the car window. There used to be a fear of abandonment when in the city, the feeling of a soft stomach, like he would be left by the grates of a liquor store window and forgotten. He was afraid of being unloved. He knew enough about himself then to know he could not fend for himself, a pup among smoking feral dogs. The city was so big and so full of shadows. 

The car turned right and down another street, this one with lit trees down the length of it. Now he could only access that old feeling of apprehension through the recognition of the absence of it. He could recall the shapes of those anxieties by mentally tracing the markings they left behind. There were deep caverns in him aching to be filled by something new.

He held his eyes open and fought against blinking until all the lights blurred like they did in movies.

Filed under journal writing

8 notes

thursday night, tired

This is something short I’m writing just before bed, just to write. I used to write so often, and now almost never. It feels like my mind catches on the paper and drags an uneven, dusty line of graphite against my thoughts that were so clear before I tried to get them down.

Remember the other times we put aside our love and I fought every day to pick it up again? Will it never be your turn to fight? I am put aside like a ruined page, wrinkled and marked by an unforgivable line.

It’s been warm these last few days. It makes it dangerous to walk.

Filed under writing journal

8 notes

the coldest part of winter is the walk
from the mailbox back up the drive,
where you see another country in yours,
a love ended that once nestled itself
just here. right here.
you don’t mean to be trite, but
you wonder if it was all worth giving up,
and your heart is made of water that won’t freeze,
and you whisper don’t forget me,
and the wind, in the voice of your lover, blows.

Filed under writing journal

21 notes

sunday night

I would cry on the way to the airport and my lips would tremble the way they do when I am at home and it is winter and freezing cold. The woman who took my passport when I flew home the first time was very nice and looked in my eyes even though I was wearing sunglasses and wished me a very nice flight, which made me cry a little more and a little less.

I am afraid that I will never be able to erase the mistakes that I made and now, when I am quiet, I think about the bad things that happened and I feel really ugly because I wish I had never done them in the first place and I don’t want them to overshadow the very good parts of what we had.

Once we were drunk and in a pizza place and we were so vulnerable with each other. I knew from the very beginning. Even now, when I tell a story about you, I start it with those words. Once upon a time. I knew from the very beginning.

I miss the smell of airports and of you but we are moving in different directions and you can’t leave and I can’t leave even though we both made the other believe we would. We both turned away and I am sad and I hope somewhere someone is begging someone else not to go because they are in love and they want to be happy.

Filed under writing journal

8 notes

12/11/13 9:24 pm

My hands are full of tiny paper cuts that are raised and hot and I can’t hold any more grief, I say to the moon.

You have made me undo the stitching that held me together. Did you forget I am mostly paper, that there are parts of me that will be torn when I pull out those threads? What then? I will be a loose page with one edge all ragged and feathered and my two sides of secrets exposed. I will be unbound. Yes, I can file this away with the boarding passes and letters and birthday cards, hidden until one day mostly forgotten, only to be recovered again when least expected, while searching for a misplaced address or telephone number. How I will be caught off guard by this artifact, and aware of the absence of you, and after all that time the wounds will still sting and the paper will have stayed sharp at the edges.

Filed under writing journal