saltwater--veins
unrequited love.
sometimes my mind explodes and words tumble out, flopping about on paper like fish out of water.
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ode to a carhartt jacket
11.28.22; 6:30pm
i gasp in the dark
at the thought of your lips;
my head on your chest;
your warmth;
your smell.
your breath on my hair
at 4 in the morning
keeps me grounded,
yet lifts me higher
than anything else.
what has lain hollow for far too long
now full of life
and love
and the taste of your skin.
it’s funny, really,
like comedy central,
how i thought i knew it all.
how i swore up
and
down
it was just me.
it is just me.
it’s always been just me;
that i felt in my bones i’d be alone forever;
didn’t think i had another half.
but when we met
i recognized you instantly;
found a comfortability i swore up and down didn’t exist.
as if our souls had met
before being brought to this earth.
as if it weren’t just me.
your voice is honey
and your skin is velvet.
and your arms feel just like home.
life moves too quickly,
yet our time is so short;
i’d sell my soul to hades himself
if it meant i’d spend it all
with you.
i’m falling faster that angels shot out of the sky;
than leaves in the wind;
than sand in the ocean;
i love you whispered to a sleeping lover has never felt so good.
you are lightning in my lungs
and sugar in my veins;
the sweetest soul i’ll ever be lucky enough to know
by heart.
ple
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my rapist got married
7.2.21; 7:07pm
though i removed all pathways to see it today,
i know it’s there.
the marriage of my rapist
to the woman he now calls his.
i know it’s there because i remember it,
less than a year ago,
flashing itself across my facebook feed
and engraining itself in my retinas.
it’s disturbing to know someone so horrid
so apathetic
so vile
can wriggle their way into someone else’s life so effortlessly
so flawlessly,
or so one would think.
lord knows what happens on the other side of the door,
but history has shown me
even angels can fall to hell;
my eyes roll back into my head
willing the memories away:
it gets easier with time.
so today, 689 days since i decided i was leaving you,
i write this poem for you
rather than myself.
because it is time to lay it to rest.
to never utter your name again;
to lower the casket of this trauma
and liberate myself from the grips of regret.
you will never apologize
or acknowledge the pain you’ve caused,
but today i have decided to forgive you
my soul deserves peace.
ple
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hands
january 24, 2021; 12:25am
i can not pinpoint
what it is about them
that brings my mind back
again and again,
but i think often of your hands.
but my body longs for your touch;
for your fingertips to linger in places
i wish they could remain forever;
for your unyielding grip
pressing just enough around my neck;
for your broad shoulders
to wrap your arms around me,
fingers pressing themselves into my arms
late into the night.
my thighs moan
and my breasts ache,
crying out for the caress of your palms.
indulge me.
rip me apart.
tear into my soul.
i know you desire every inch of me.
ple
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how to not move on from something you still miss
january 14, 2021; 1:43am
i can feel your sadness
quake through my body:
the ache of a love
not yet come to fruition.
ink-stained fingertips trace my spine in the dark.
a man in mourning,
i hear you cry into the night
for a life that’s still to come.
longing
drips from your fingertips,
formulating the work of a genie on paper;
how can you miss something you haven’t yet had?
beg for the beginning of something new?
long for the return of something
that’s yet to even arrive?
tell me,
boy of many words,
what do you whisper to yourself
alone at midnight,
when no one is near to wipe your eyes?
who holds your hands
in the dead of winter,
keeping them warm and granting your wish?
who do you want to?
ple
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a open letter
january 9, 2021; 2:46am
i read a quote once
that said
‘maybe the wolf is in love with the moon
and it cries every month for a love
it will never touch;’
i understand, for
my tears have run dry,
i have cried for you so long.
i want to
try you on for size;
your sadness is my favorite shirt i’ve ever worn.
this is an open letter
to you,
boy of many words.
i do not need someone who
will pour worlds into my ears,
or whose kiss feels like a sunrise
and touch feels like lightning;
but i want it.
and i know you do too.
i have the strength
for any journey worth taking;
just wait for my fingers to trace your silhouette.
ple
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in love and in mourning: rekindled
november 9, 2020 1:36pm
we look into the eyes
of someone that we think with all of our being
that we are in love with,
and we see f i r e .
we see ourselves in them.
and we see them in every single damned thing we do.
every thing i do.
everywhere that i go,
all of the people that i spend my time with now,
i see pieces of you in them.
i would give up the idea of infinity
just to touch you;
to feel your arms
hair
face
lips
chest
one last time,
because i am in love with so many things,
and a poem can only take up
so
many
pages.
i am in love with words
and i am in love with the way that they are
one of the very few things
that can make people feel
s o m e t h i n g .
i am in love with the way
that your eyes
said everything i ever needed wanted to hear.
because this is an open wound
i thought would seal up
and heal
and go back to normal,
but at night,
when we lie side by side
all too awake in the dark
and we're trying to rekindle
all of things that we used to
feel
we find that some breaks
are far better left u n-m e n d e d .
my heart is dead
and my tears have run dry
and i do not i can not feel anything for you anymore.
i am in love
and i am in mourning
and i am unsure as to which i prefer.
ple
#ple#poem#poetry#in love and in mourning#rekindled#heartfire#dead heart#throwback#old poem new edits
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He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.
Unknown (via monarchie)
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fragment #12
kings and queens
kings and queens
they beg for more than the finer things:
love and rubies and diamond rings;
kings and queens
kings and queens
jester, jester
jack of all trades
come rest your crown upon this stool
i am the queen and you are the fool
jester, jester
jack of all trades
queens and kings
queens and kings
allow yourself to make no mistake:
take this day as nothing but fate
queens and kings
queens and kings
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my rapist asked his new girlfriend to marry him
july 6, 2020 11:12pm
there it is.
staring me in the eye again.
blinking red, saying that
“jane doe is
engaged
to
john fuckface.”
it’s facebook official;
it happened two days ago.
i see cheers,
likes,
smiles,
and congrats,
but it may just be
that none of these people know.
none of these people know
how it feels to want to carve
your own skin open
for some sense of release.
none of these people know
the pain of three years
of lying,
saying all’s fine and well,
while screaming inside for someone to notice.
none of these people know
how it feels to be so close
to your gaslighter;
your manipulator;
your rapist.
none of these people know
how it feels to wake
to someone’s
fingers;
tongue;
penis
inside of them.
i don’t really know how to feel.
it took eight months of
telling myself
that there’s no way
this was all there was for me;
there was no way
that all life had in store for me
was living and sleeping in fear of the man
i shared a bed with.
and as it’s been almost a full year
since i ran,
i’ve learned i don’t need to forgive
to move on.
i can have PTSD and still
move on.
i don’t have to know how to feel
to move on.
i just need to love myself
the way i deserve to be loved;
the way i have always
deserved to be loved.
she deserves to be loved too.
i hope she finds it.
ple
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choking on sunshine.
november 9, 2020 12:20am
clocks fill the air;
tick
tick
ticking.
my patience is nearing its end,
like the blood that flows between heart and head.
i know loss:
like every stitch in my sheets and every smudge on my pillowcase.
i know regret:
like the crunch of knuckles to a cheekbone.
i know heartbreak:
like the rise and fall of my own chest,
gasping for air in the middle of the night.
boys with razor tongues
grow into men
with iron lungs;
who are you to tell me how to breathe?
but still day after retched day
i find myself locked in crowded rooms
of hot bodies
and rancid breath;
screaming at the top of my lungs,
yet no sound escapes.
clawing at my throat, dying to take in what i’ve not been given.
we’re all looking for that person
who can see into the dusty corners of our minds;
where we hack and choke on words that could have been.
someone who calls at four in the morning
because they know you’re not asleep,
but gagging and heaving
into the dark.
i am glass feet,
paper lungs,
porcelain skin;
shatter me
with the weight of your chest.
what if i never find the one
who makes me feel as if
they hand-crafted the sun themself,
just for me,
to one day inhale
its light?
ple
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sticks and stones, skin and bones
in the beginning, everyone is gentle:
the man in the corner gas station;
the cool girl in sixth grade;
the woman in aisle 12;
the boy from your college english class;
your mother;
your father.
6 times throughout my life
i have gotten up late for
a glass of water;
a midnight snack;
to tell my mom i had a bad dream;
and happened across
my parents
mid-divorce.
unfortunately,
i didn’t see until i turned 17
what their hatred was doing—
they branded their war
on this skin bag of a girl,
raised their weapons and aimed blindly
taking me down in their wake.
it’s not nice when girls die,
and it’s worse when it’s by their own hand;
by their own tongue.
by their own vomit.
who could love a girl with mangled skin?
with arms and legs and a belly so thin
one gust too big and she’s dust in the breeze?
i am the space between my thighs,
daylight shining through.
when i was five years old,
i told my mother that i never wanted to die.
that i wanted to last forever and ever
and never see the sun set on my final day;
that i wanted this and every moment
that i'd yet to know to last until the end of time.
but i am just a raggedy doll
put here to show people that god really exists.
my mind is tired from carrying this weight;
my soul is tired from all of this hate;
my body is tired from being run dry.
i’m tired of being tired of being tired of being.
i understand why depressed people kill themselves:
they need the rest.
ple
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rt
i was on the evening news last night, interviewed about my work with domestic violence and my experience as a survivor of intimate partner rape.. and honestly, part of me wants my ex/rapist to see the interview on tv about my experience with intimate partner sexual violence and be like “oh…she’s still suffering and i did something terrible.” but even more of me doesnt want him to see it at all.
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my rapist has a new girlfriend.
there it is.
staring me in the eye.
blinking red
“jane doe is
in
a relationship
with
john fuckface.”
it’s facebook official even!
and i don’t really know how to feel.
i can feel myself:
staring off into space
for a little longer than need be.
i can feel myself:
cracking from the inside out,
more emotions than i can explain
spilling onto the floor
the chair
my cheeks.
i can feel myself:
wishing for an accident
or a tragedy
or her strength
or even his death.
is it wrong to wish for the death
of someone else
who killed you inside
over and over
and over?
because my doing nothing
to warn the general population
of a
“RAPIST!
RAPIST!
this man
may seem wonderful
to all of you
but i promise you he is a
RAPIST!”
makes me feel as if somehow
i am at fault.
but would it have made a difference?
brock turner
got three months
and he didn’t even know
chanel miller.
austin wilkerson
got off scoff-free
for sexual assault
and unlawful sexual contact.
donald trump
is the god damn
president
of the united states
for christ sake.
and i.
oh, i.
i dated my rapist
for three years.
lived in the same
lonely apartment
for a year,
and slept in the same bed as him
for months
and months
and months.
would it have mattered if i never wanted to have sex?
or if i did maybe once every two months,
but not every two days?
or would it have mattered that most of the time
i awoke to this man
this monster
this rapist
entering me
while i slept?
i have walked the path of darkness—
sliced my feet on every bitter word
i tried to choke down.
i have given all i had
to pry myself out of the bear trap
that was my relationship with this man.
but no matter how safe i feel now
nothing compares
to the bear in my stomach
ripping me apart
at the thought that someone new
will someday awake to the same horror.
ple
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i’ve been thinking about killing myself for four weeks now
i’ve been thinking about killing myself
for four weeks now
and i’m not sure why.
or at least,
i can’t pinpoint one specific reason
or person
or thing.
there’s work
and class
and financial insecurity,
boys
and depression
and my dad,
there’s stomach fat
and chemical imbalances
and weekly rape that i endured for three years,
and maybe most importantly
there’s the future.
the never-ending,
forever-impending
doom that is the future.
i fear i’ll be homeless
and alone
and won’t age well
and will go bankrupt
and won’t be able to have children
and will never get married
or ever fall in love again
or never wake up again
or never enjoy life again
or never enjoy the sunshine again
or never see you again.
life is so hard
and i have had so many bad habits before
that could make it
so much easier
again.
- smoking;
- drinking;
- nameless sex;
- slicing my thighs;
- breaking things throughout my room;
texting you until all hours of the night.
i have loved
and i have lost
and i have felt everything in between,
but nothing will compare
to the pressure of your lips.
i’m still trying to write my pain away
with poems,
but sometimes my mind explodes
and words tumble out,
flopping about on paper
like fish out of water;
and sometimes it only writes of missing you.
ple
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Aphrodite Made Me Do It, Trista Mateer
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i really fuck with a “let’s make it work” type of person
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