You (30 of 30!)

You feel like the end of a chain
of bad decisions, like with you,
my body has given up; the dominoes
have been falling,
falling, falling, and
with you, the last one has
fallen and I have been
buried under the weight of your ego.
You feel like the result of years of no work, of years
of broken flowers and empty promises
of years of stupidity.
You feel like the condensed form of
every bad word I
have ever dared to utter, like every
slap I should never have given, like
the morning after pill; I taste my
bitter memories every time we kiss.
You feel like all the things I shouldn’t have done, and
this, this feeling is why I’m leaving.
Because if I stay, you won’t be the
one to blame. I’ll be the one burying
myself, and I don’t think I’m ready to
leave this life behind.
So I’ll be leaving, because
you feel like death and I,
I just want to feel alive.

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We Are Here

Here we are.
I never thought I would be here,
today, with you, lying so close
together that our toes are touching,
that our hands are intertwined,
that I can feel your hot breath on my back.

Here we are.
Seems like a movie doesn’t it?
It seems like the rhyme I’ve been
searching for my entire life.
Your gaze doesn’t make me crumble,
like so many other’s, instead
it makes me rise up.
It make me touch the heavens, it
makes me want to learn chemistry
just so I can use the right words for this love.

There I was.
A shadow in the darkness,
A silence in a void.
Lost.
A soul full of dusky hopelessness.

Here I am.
A light in the dark,
Music heard in noise,
Found.
I’m not saying that you made me whole, no, you didn’t.
I’m saying you helped me find the
person I wanted to be,
The person I could always be,
The person I didn’t know how to be.

Here we are.
At our full potentials, racing
to the stars, bubbling
to the surface,

We are here.
And I’m so glad that this snapshot
exists, I’m so glad that
we came together,
I’m so glad this poem can attest to our love long after we’re gone.

We are here,
and it feels like magic, it feels
like the sun in winter,
it feels like us.
Us, with our toes touching,
with our hands intertwined.
Us, with your breath on my back.

We are here.
It feels like us, and
I’ve never been happier.

Pool of Sorrows (29 of 30)

The blood slowly trickled down her temple and
dripped onto her folded palms from where
it fell on her knees and then on the floor,
forming a little pool of her sorrows.
She looked up at him, begging for mercy
and he smiled while taking another sip
of his drink and towering over her a man no
more, but a monster, just one wearing
a suit, just one
that nobody else seemed to see.

Silence (27 of 30)

My silence seems to be a chainsaw
slowly sawing through my throat
and it seems to be a jail
I’ve locked myself into, but
I don’t really feel like leaving.
Because even as it cuts me open,
it sews me shut and I’m glad.
I know I’m not suppose to do this,
but here I am.
Here I am.
Here I am, head barely attached to my body,
demons crawling out of me,
here I am.
Silent, and as long as
I’m not entirely unhappy,
I guess I’m in a good place.
I guess silence is like a nice place
to settle down in.
I guess, here I am.

Sorry if this poem appears on 28th, I had some technical problems and the poem was deleted, I think. Thanks! x

Lead (26 of 30)

Your eyes remind of the virgins hues
of silver and your body reminds me of pure
gold because most people stop looking the
moment they see your flesh, but
your heart is like lead, dull to the
touch but warm and welcoming no matter
what, yes, your heart is always like lead.

Episode 5: The Muse Striketh Back (25 of 30)

You never warned me.
I mean, that’s the least you could do considering that our relationship is profit for you.The first time I read your poetry, I wasn’t that shocked
that you wrote about us- more about how you lied. And you can deny it all you want, you can play the victim with all your friends, but just know that when I read your poetry- I know the truth.
Maybe if you had warned me, I wouldn’t have cared that you took our story and turned it into a cheap drama.
But now? I think I deserve my chance to speak up. Remember when you threw your phone at me? Remember when you told my mother I was bipolar? Remember when you made out with my best friend?
Yeah, I guess I was the villain. I was the one who ‘broke you’, the one who ‘shattered your ribcage’, the one who ‘took your love and gave you nothing’. Fuck you.
You and your metaphors can both go rot. I am not your dark sky, your snake, your cloud, your murderer, your shard of glass or your last love.
Maybe if you had told the truth about us, I wouldn’t have been mad. Maybe if you hadn’t left me for him, I wouldn’t be mad.
Maybe if I wasn’t still hung up on you, I wouldn’t be mad.
But I am.
Fuck, I am.

Note to Self (24 of 30)

I scrawl little poems on notepad sheets and
pretend this is what real poets do.
I write notes to myself about mental health
that I don’t even need, I invalidate myself sometimes
just for the perks of the narrative.

Is this what real poets do?
I have been hiding my poetry behind my back,
I’ve been calling it rambles while you,
you call it poetry. You call it beautiful.
I call it a mess.
Is it creative to not market yourself? Or is it just stupidity?
Is it healthy to write or am I just
stuffing words into my throat and telling myself it’s food?
When was the last time I ate well?
My stomach hurts.

Note to self: this is poetry.
Note to self: you eat less.
Note to self: you’re a poet.
All of these statements make me sound
like the manic pixie dream girl image
I’ve been cultivating.
None of them are true.
This is not poetry, this is a shard of glass
aimed at your heart. This is a confession
I can’t make face to face.
I’m sorry for sending you poems in bad handwriting.
I’m sorry for hurting more than I should have.
Do real poets apologise?
Or do they just write it down as a reminder
of something they’ll always forget to do?
I’ve been scrawling words on notepad sheets
and calling it poetry. How much
time is left before someone calls me out on it?

Baby, I’ve never actually been inspired in class.
I just thought that’s what I’m supposed to do.

Like this, this is essentially poetry isn’t it?
An apology to an elusive second person,
coupled with self criticism, this
must be poetry. This has to be what real poets do.
I’ve been writing notes to my self for
far too long about things I don’t need to know.
I’ve forgotten how to separate myself from my fiction-
Note to self: you are real.
Note to self: you might not be a poet, but you still matter
Note to self: get over yourself.

If You Left (Petrarchan Sonnet) (23 of 30)

If you left me now, how would I react?
Denial might wrap its arms around me,
whispering sweet nothing’s; maybe I’ll flee.
My frail self could break – no longer intact.

I could wither; I could decay in fact.
I might beg you to take me back, to be
my lover again, and you’ll be beastly;
mocking me. Truly, you’ll have an impact.

Alas, this is all simply a nightmare,
hopefully never to occur, just my
imagination causing me to cry.
When I’m with you, I can breathe – there is air.
You would never leave, you make me fly high
With you, I am free; I never despair.