I’ve never been good
at writing about the
way this body feels
when its heart is happy.
I have never been
good at writing
I can carve the word
“worry” into endless
streamers, strip the
wariness down to its
center and make
her dance, but I
never have been good
at building the word
“happy” from the places
on my body I most wish
to feel it, from the
burn inside my chest
that only grows when
I am against you.
In some sense, I
must have been
born of the sky.
I have never hated
a star, no matter
how dim its light.
I think, sometimes,
I forget that I, too,
am a miraculous
body of matter
caught in space.
I am a smaller
kind of dying
The first boy I kiss doesn’t write. He doesn’t understand why my bedroom walls tell stories that are sixteen years too long. He does not write novels on my spine with his fingertips.
The next boy I kiss calls himself a fan of mine, and I find him flipping through the notebooks in my childhood bedroom, reading the words that I throw at strangers but am too afraid to say out loud. My stories are bigger than me, and I fear that if I let them out I will become nothing but a hollow girl with ink beneath her fingernails.
The next boy I kiss tastes like typewriter ribbons and yesterday morning’s coffee. “You’re a writer,” I say, “I’d know those shaking hands and tired eyes anywhere.” We spent the night writing sonnets with our tongues, but when I read love poems written to her over his shoulder, I quietly buttoned my shirt and left, not a single sentence trailing behind me.
The last boy I kiss is the reason why I stay up until four in the morning spilling ink instead of blood, and I read love poems to him over the phone despite my shaking hands and unsteady lungs. We sat on rooftops chain-smoking and screaming poetry at the sky, but now I spend Friday nights with packs of matches until every word I wrote about him falls like cigarette ashes.—Kissing Boys That Taste Like Ink And Spitting Fire In Motel Sinks // heartofthebitter-mindofapoet
it’s eight o’clock in the morning and i ask you if
you love her
and you say “um” and
i just kind of grimace because it’s so early and
hearing you still stutter over the places
she left burning on your skin
as if you were her ashtray
just makes my heart chug like a steam-powered train
and god help me but i know i’m barely more
than a speck of dirt to you, some kind of
decomposer so your death doesn’t have to be so slow,
some kind of fungus that’s grown up between your toes
but you’ve kept around because you like how it
hurts you know once you told me
“i feel like mold gets a bad rap”
and i feel like the mold that’s growing over all the
damp fingerprints she left behind
i mean you choke on the bits of her
still left in your throat
how are you supposed to even say my name
when you can’t even get air to your lungs i mean
i was supposed to be your something-special
and most of the time i wake up and find
you’re at the other side of the bed,
nightmaring about her again
and god, i don’t know,
it’s eight o’clock in the morning
and you still make me think the kind of thoughts
that belong to
I need to stop
being in love
with the ideas of
what could have been.
We could have
slowly inched closer
and held each other
a little tighter.
We could have
laughed a little harder
and fallen in love
There are so many things
that could have happened,
but did not.
We almost were.
We almost were.
And we almost happened,
cupid almost won.
But he didn’t.
And we didn’t,
We could have
I’m sure we could have.
We were almost there.
A Story A Day #236 by M.D.L
He’d never cared much for strawberries, but that summer her lips were so stained with the juices that they were all he tasted.
And he’d never had a favourite fruit, but two years later, a new girl is sat in front of him, laughing at his jokes.
"If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?" She asks playfully.
And he remembers how her hands traced the veins in his neck and made their way across his chest. He remembers her soft breathing and limbs draped across his shoulders.
"Strawberries." He tells her. "I could live a life on nothing but strawberries."—Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #54 -"Strawberries"
the turkey swiss on rye incident
watching yourself being replaced by people better than you
"charge him with murder and we will go home" it really is as simple as that people try and act like it’s the protesters here who are being unreasonable