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The heart is perpetually five years old.
The heart is perpetually five years old.
The first time he hits you he will say sorry. He will say the gravitational pull of his fist was attracted to the fault of your unapologetic face. It will be easy to forgive him, this time. His lips taste like red wine on the nights he decides to love you and his palms, his palms, they know no harm to the rest of your body. Let your face take the refuge of his anger. Let your heart kneel to the superiority complex of his misogyny. He knows no better. He needs to be taken care of, loved, and you’ve got an immensity in you he only knows how to dig for with his fists.
You kiss him on the lump of his Adam’s apple after the third time it happens, listen to him speak of God as though the scripture has anything to do with learning how to treat a woman. You should know better. He isn’t fucking you because he needs to believe in God, he’s fucking you because he knows it’s forbidden. He’s just looking to taste the parts of you no one else has before, because it’s easier to possess something that was never meant to be his in the first place.
The seventh time it happens you tell yourself that this is what it took for the earth to be created. You tell yourself it’s romantic, the color in your eyes was always too dull anyway. This is ceramic tenacity that you can only break once. You learn that your timing is always off. Either he’s made it to the door before you have or you bought too much concealer and can’t afford your way to work.
You find that you can’t afford a lot of things anymore. Your pride, your self worth, your confidence, your ability to look at yourself while you undress in front of a mirror that knows more about your past than he does. You don’t get out of bed in the morning. You roll your face into your pillow that’s just as beat as you are, surviving off the scraps of memories of the dreams you had when love meant you didn’t have to make yourself small.
Your worth is measured in more than the amount of times it takes for him to hit you before you bruise. Your friends are ancient love affairs you had when the stars hadn’t died yet, when your lungs still knew how to breathe before they were punctured with the pins and needles of what it means when you can’t love someone into kindness.
Venturing back to human is costly. You give up the way he held your shaking bones the first time he hit you and said sorry like he meant it. Like you could believe him. You give up the taste of his mouth, that old familiar dialect. You give up on the part of you that you’ve spent years believing could heal the worse that’s out there.
You don’t know it yet, but this is not what home feels like. He isn’t your responsibility. There isn’t anything broken inside you that don’t know how to love anyone. This is not your fault. This is not your fault. This is not your fault. You are wolverine and lion claw. The tent of your chest is all-encompassing, you have the potential to start a revolution. If not for the world then at least for yourself.
this is so wonderful thank you. i’mma keep the keeping on, you keep on too
the lights inside my head are worn out shades of all the days i convinced myself i wasn’t worth loving. slowly, slowly i am pulling the strings out of the puppet of my heart; it is learning how to pulse, it is learning how to beat and dance inside the rickety wood work of my dilapidated chest. i still speak in fits of mania, i remain inside the spine of the tornadoes i’ve spent my whole life calling home. i am a quick study, though, i have fingered the spines of philosophy’s greatest manuscripts. this is something i know how to do: let go, let go, let go and i am learning to do it almost as well as i taught my lungs to breathe again.
My romance for her is a hummingbird
beating its frantic wings
inside the botany of my insides.
She grows in me frantic,
makes me mad
to believe in magic again.
The geometry of her heart
is sacred and blooming.
I hold its tender pulse
between the wild of my teeth,
pick her from my bones
during the nights she fucks herself
and I can’t touch her.
She is a lustrous affair
the moon has become
jealous of. I no longer write
of longing for the stars;
the big bang I have spent
my whole life searching for
has been found.
Its residue had wound its way
in the parallel of her veins.
I kiss her and find fragments
of gods her pulse prays to.
I have been planting dandelions
on the rims of shooting stars
to convince her of the beauty
locked inside the potential
of all her many selves.
She is a track line,
a high which tastes
and fucks better
than the first time
I swallowed starshine
and did not cry.
i woke up this morning with the taste of moonshine in my mouth, gentle and demanding to be felt. much like my heart has been for the past forever: a thud thud against the harmony tuning itself inside what’s left of my me. when i woke up and looked at the nightstand my heart wasn’t sitting there. she rests inside my chest; no longer jail, no longer barred, no longer stripped and naked and pleading to be heard. i am listening to her cries and what a beautiful world exists here, what breathtaking things i am taking in (devouring, consuming, making a fucking mess of).
i am an empty bullet shell. i unloaded myself from the revolver, emptied the gun powder out of the lava churning inside my heart’s fist. my insecurities took a march into obedience.
stay in bed for too long
on the days
that remind you of
what her neck used to
get up and eat breakfast,
the kind that makes you
the texture of her tongue.
it isn’t yours now.
hike yourself up,
remember that there are
things bright and longing and
yearning in you
that it is time for you to
come home to yourself.
knock on the old oak doors
of your heart’s cemetery and say,
"let there be light."
you are reanimated
in the hardwood of your ribs.
there are things in you which were
once dead that are learning
to breathe again;
you, you magnificent god.
you have every right to do this.
there is immense enough room for you
left inside the harbor of a mind
you haven’t got to see yet.
it is time to let your chakras bleed.
technology really freaks me out when i’m high like how does it do all these things
Oh the sobriety, no, it hasn’t been on purpose. I’ve just been documenting what state of mind I write which poems in. This means a lot to me and I’m going to keep it here and look at it when I don’t feel like writing. Sometimes I need to hear that, the keep it up. I will. Thank you so much.
The first thing I did was fuck a poet. I wanted her to write the lines for me you were incapable of understanding the depth of. By the end of our relationship I was deliriously in need of spilling myself into the dome of someone else’s chest - romance shouldn’t work like that. It didn’t work with us. The more time that passed the more that writing things about how we weren’t going to last didn’t hurt quite as much.
I think I’ve wept you out of my atoms. You are no longer in my jeans. I left your boxers at the dry cleaner’s to let them be the one to wash out the last mess you made that wasn’t inside of me. It comforts me to know that I can say that and not cringe, that my body is property to the superiority complex of someone else’s demands. That I don’t get wet for you anymore.
This is me learning how to write even if it’s cruel. There are things I have to say about you, honest things, that are not nice, they are not good, they are enough to hurt you. I hold your fragile state of being in the elixir of my vowels - it was always a responsibility I never asked for. You can’t just give away things like that and take nothing in return.
Lately I’ve been learning the value of knowing someone from the inside out. The vastness of the human mind is a drug I suck off better than I ever did you. I am finding flowers growing where you told me your dreams went to die inside me. I am in the process of out growing the skin you touched me in; there are new imprints I am eager to indulge myself inside of.
The ocean is large enough to hold metaphors that don’t end in you. The moon is bright enough to light more than the only memory I have of your hands not hurting me. The sun, the sun, she is bold enough to love the many mes you turned your back to. You taught me how not to love someone."
We walk to the gas station drunk
and I tell you of the imaginary lives of
what lives in the dark
of my neighborhood.
I didn’t grow up here,
but sometimes when the family
is eating dinner together
it feels like it.
I tell you: welcome to the family.
Dysfunctional and a little neurotic,
but so much heart.
You can live inside my pocket lint,
inside the wax of a candle
I left burning all night.
Live inside the moss collecting
in the pit of my tummy,
where warm things are learning to grow.
Where I’ve got glow worms
and your mouth to thank.
Live inside whatever it is
that makes up my head.
You can gnaw on the bones
of my insecurities.
I believe in your power to heal.
Where I keep her veins
locked and loaded with the
artillery of my more
I save them for her, to kiss
into her collarbones
while I’m fucking her somewhere
between the balancing pulse of ecstasy
She is that “hits just the right spot” kind of girl.
She is that “you have rerouted
the hardwire of my being” kind of girl.
Her mouth speaks fluently,
binary lapses of consciousness.
She fucks me with that mouth.
She fucks me with her tongue
and every inhale I take
is the line to a poem
that doesn’t need to be written.
We stay up to fuck to the rising sun;
she is photosynthesis for
the vulgar and insatiable girl
she convinces me into.
She is a sterile needle in a barren warzone;
like the taste of heroin,
of pure coke,
of crystals that fuck better
than your first lover did.
I lay her down with poems
instead of rosebuds;
they taste sweeter in the morning,
they sneak their barbed wire
under my skin which I take off
the invisible barrier of.
She fucks me inside the demons
we tried to pretend didn’t exist;
we succumb to the inability
to resist the plausibility that this
is better than we’ve ever had before.