Teacup FriendsWe brew cups of tea and remember them thirty minutes later. The water is still warm when we pull out the teabag, but the liquid is thick and smells bitter. We drink it anyway;the syrupy liquid coats our throats and stains our stomachs. We drink it anyway, since we took the time to make it.
We figure they are like that; bitter, forgotten cups of tea that we invested so much time in making. (We even give them names: Earl Grey, Peppermint, Breakfast Blend, and Chamomile.)
Chamomile was the first to go, clipping the hair above his ears, buttoning himself up inside a black pea coat, tying it all up with a noose-like scarf around his neck.
Inside we mourned, but outside we laughed about how silly this all was. As if the way he wore his hair determined his newfound spite. As if the pea coat was a rite of passage, a ticket to better things.
But then Breakfast Blend, Peppermint, and Earl Grey followed, sweeping locks of hair beneath the rug and buttoning four years inside their pea coats. (It
someone's octobermaybe tomorrowsomeone's october4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i will lace my fingers through
my ribcage, or
lay pennies in the hollow of
my throat, just between
(i carved my skeleton
with my bare hands, so
leave a wishbone at my feet
& let it break)
maybe tomorrow i will
on the sidewalk, all skinned knees and
scraped palms, and become
someone else entirely:
i will unfold my eyes
and linger behind them,
warm as winter
when i am twenty fivei will have eyes fixed on the horizon,when i am twenty five2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
one foot in front of the other,
laughter spilling out of my ears,
nosediving into something wonderful.
daedalusi. we are like birds,daedalus3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
birds without the wings
but with the song.
(icarus did not want for wings)
We did not want for chains we did not
want to flee
(he did not want to fall
I am without fear, and you are without blood,
and we could never hope to scratch the sun,
but perhaps we might endeaver to suspend it.
it's the hollow beat of bones on drums
it's a steady throb of pins on thumbs
it's a simple truth that
nobody wants to fly
ii. but they do.
tu fui ego erisif you wish we could play connect the dotstu fui ego eris2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
with my skin. run your fingers across type-
writer ribbons, mar shady silk with prints.
drift freckle to freckle, make port wine stains.
black out these eyes; accent the dusty blue.
ink doesn't fade as expected. viscid,
oozing into the crevices to stay.
burning maps, enjoying being unfound.
choosing to camouflage. bruise twisted joints.
i have covered up everything for you
making sure that the game board does not change.
walking slowly and washing carefully.
as not to move the pieces from their place.
FFM VI (The Astronaut)I've always liked astronauts. There is a strange romanticism attached to someone who finds the entire world so mundane that they feel compelled to leave it behind. (I hear that the word mundane means "earthly." Figures.) They need more. They need the universe. They need everything that ever was and ever will be.FFM VI (The Astronaut)2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
My husband is an astronaut, and as a child, I wanted to become one too. I could leave my little world behind. But as I grew, my little world also grew, and I realized that there was more than enough to explore and discover on this planet. I had my love, the astronaut and we lived in a tiny, little house where I played wife and he played husband. My world was little again, but it was perfect.
But of course, he had to suit up and take off. And I got left behind.
Most nights, I sit in
ourmy garden, and look up at the night sky. I watch the stars and know that he is up there, flying among them and I wish for them to bring him back.
And I know that this
Fever DreamsHush now,Fever Dreams2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and close your eyes
against this vermillion sunset.
You feel so much, too much:
leave crescent moons on my skin,
calm the anguished crimson heat
of your own burning heart.
This war shall end, my love;
but what will you be,
if not red?
OdiumBlack and blue,Odium2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
skin and sky
water down the drain,
as the red line of dawn
breaks over skeleton trees and
For My DaughterDear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,For My Daughter2 years ago in Letters More Like This
You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.
You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to the boy sitting alone at recess.
I will write you poems and stories about how you are my miracle. I will read them to you sometimes, just to remind you. As you grow, not a day will go by that I'm not thankful for everything you are. You will be dazzling and beautiful and brilliant and compassionate and playful and curious and all of the things
faithyou stay home sunday morningsfaith2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
folding the horoscopes page of the newspaper
into cootie catchers--
with every word you spell out
your hands press in and out of prayer.
on a day you thought uranus out-shined the moon
you met me first,
i tried to read your palms
but they were worn and ink veiled
and the lines around your mouth
laughed at my rabbit feet;
so eager to jump right in and out of things.
you tried to fold me
so that the words on my skin
would align out of nonsense
as though i were some galaxy
to be charted and given your name,
but i admit i picked you up like a penny
and crossed my fingers that
our wishbone bodies wouldn't break
but i guess the planets weren't on my side.
ExhaustionExhaustionExhaustion2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I wake, swollen with noon heat.
Half dressed, I stumble,
elbows and toes catching
on the clawed feet of chairs,
the blunt holes of open cupboards.
I sometimes forget my name.
In the kitchen, I pepper the rice
instead of salt. Black flecks surface
in the boiling water,
sea turtles migrating.
If I knew where you went,
I would follow. But all you left behind
was an old sweater, an empty notebook,
complete and infinite
as the space around a closed fist.
The BluesMy darling,The Blues3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
ghost your fingers across
those black and white bones;
then tear them out
you won't need them
(There's no need for sheet music here,
when we have your semibreve breaths.)
that piano is as barren as
the one who sits before it,
and doesn't play.
...like kissing caffeinehe drinks me in like a creamy mocha--...like kissing caffeine3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
double shot chocolate,
making love to sugar.
his eyes on my thighs,
& lips on my hips:
my heart dancing & pounding in
of devilish love,
the picture perfect poet's dream:
a soft, swirled, murmuring blend of
sweet & spicy & bitter & sour.
every breath of his
a windfall of words go off in my head
that i don't even understand.
beautiful eyes that in me
surmise no surprise
--green like unfallen snow--
each whisper of a feeling in them
like a caressing fingertip up your spine,
i shiver & laugh
when his lips touch mine, it's...
FallingFallingFalling2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The body is weightless,
bones hollow as flutes.
They sing startled crescendos
beneath the world distant and harmless for once,
a map of what was.
"Here lie monsters," they warned.
Here lie creatures luminous, grotesque, incandescent
beyond anything you might know.
locationlaughing under train bridges,location2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and kicking our emotions along the tracks like stones--
well, that is where i want you.
at the rocks of my spine behind
the waterfall of my hair
when i am conversing through the phone--
shooting away the flesh of
watermelons in the yard
when i am showering alone--
that is where i want you.
your lap beneath my head
when you're reading out a poem--
across the table, silent,
while i lick at latte foam--
by my side down by the lake
when all the geese have flown--
in thirty postcards when you've gone
to see things on your own--
hot and breathless on my lips
when at the edge of all your moans--
with a dustpan in the kitchen when
the plates have all been thrown--
on the front steps of my skin
waiting just outside my bones--
well, that is where i want you.
Coffee-Stained LetterDear Stranger,Coffee-Stained Letter4 years ago in Letters More Like This
You don't know me. And I don't know you. Maybe it's better that way. But then again, maybe we would be happier if we did know each other.
Right now, I'm sitting at my desk, with the sunlight streaming in the window, writing this letter for you. Hopefully I'll finish it by tonight, so that tomorrow I can take it to the coffee shop on the corner and drop it on the floor, or in your lap, or maybe in the lap of the person next to you so they can give it to you...because they don't seem like the type to read it, so they'll obviously just pass it on.
I like music - except terrible rap. And I love the written word more than most, it baffles some of my friends sometimes. I wonder, do you like to read? I have the tiniest tattoo I've ever seen, it's a tiny fairy on my ankle, but you can't see her unless you're looking for her and know where to look...like a real fairy, they're good at hiding too you know. I saw a fairy once. She was hiding behind the strawberries in my garden. I t
Baby, If You're Still AwakeSorry, but the person you are calling is unavailable. Please leave your message after the tone.Baby, If You're Still Awake4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Hey you, it's me...Rae.
I..I don't know where to start, but I guess that doesn't really matter right now, especially after what happened. After what I did to you, I wouldn't be surprised if you, you never want to speak to me or see me ever again, for what I did was, it was...
And I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.
I don't know how to be what you think I am, I don't know how... to love.
It's funny, you know, because I can write poems - poems about tragedies, seasons, and anything, anything at all,
but almost everyone wants to read my love poems.
Ha, I know nothing of the sort.
I, I can only mimic the feelings of being wrapped within a tenderness as light as a butterfly's touch, of being entangled within the warmth of the morning sun's rays, of being so happy that you swear it's all a dream... nothing but a waking dream.
And with you, it
The Hour-What would you do if you only had an hour to live?The Hour2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
-You heard me.
-Well... I guess I'd call everyone I love and tell them how much I care. Then, I'd... I'd sit down and spend whatever was left with you.
-How sweet. But really, what would you do?
-First, we'd have amazing sex. Then, we'd have mind-blowing sex. Then we'd have sex that showed us that there really is a god. After that, in whatever time I had left before the end, I'd post a Facebook status telling everyone how much I love them.
-That's a bit more honest. Now, what if after this hour was up, you just went back to the beginning of it like nothing had happened, but you were the only one who remembered?
-Okay... now you've lost me.
-You have one hour. After that hour, everything goes dark, and next thing you know you're back here, having this conversation with me all over again. But I don't remember, only you do.
-Like... in Groundhog Day?
-Yeah. Like in Groundhog Day.
-I guess I'd... hm. I'd do all the thi
binaryI am so bewildered.binary4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I write about this often, how I am
stuck between the fingernails of
zeros and ones,
and how the eulogies go
dim and gray when you want them to,
how the only death I can really mourn
is my own.
I want to find a frequency between
rows of numbers and your breath,
a rhythm in the product of a phosphorescent gasp
or how I once found vibrancy in a painting of
They change as you walk back and forth,
someone once explained to me.
the focus shifts.
far away, an elegant scene is painted in
reflections on water.
but when you get close, it is all brush-strokes and
turbulence and the dissonant symphony of
a hundred thousand points of light all meeting.
and this is how i realize I cannot be near you,
the texture of your paint reminds me how much is
yet to be converged, how many numbers beyond
the binary compose you,
how many things must orchestrate
your seemingly natural oblivion.
breakup breakdowni rarely touchbreakup breakdown7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
those seven digits
that make the voice
on the other end
KeystrokeThe keys feel nice under my fingers, soft and indented from manufacturing supplies and my own abuse. I like to type moreso than writing with a pencil or pen. It brings me comfort to spill words onto a nonexistent page and be able to erase them just as easily. No eraser shavings or crumpled paper to serve as evidence of my musings. The keys are like home. They call to me even when I have nothing to say. I'll spend hours typing nonsense logic into a word processor only to delete it because I didn't really want the words so much as I wanted the comfort. It's like holding my father's hand or leaning on my mother's shoulder as she wraps me in her embrace.Keystroke4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Their thin constructs are so fragile under my deft pads, and the feel of the push and give as I press on them brings life to the inanimate things. Each one is separate, an individual with a personality all their own.
J and F are my homing beacons when I rest my hands on the keyboard; their indents merely physical attributes so that
dividedi want:divided2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a mattress on the floor and stained
white sheets, stained fingers from
ink and coffee and grease. Newspapers
in the afternoon, always cigarette
smoke curling off our tongues and
hovering in the corners of the ceiling.
Balcony with a dirty view of city
alive, car horns and grunge. The inside
of my skull is lined with liquor bottles
and i'm always barefoot in only a
shirt, waiting to be fucked. Your
eyes are bleary above the constant
scratchy stubble on tight-skinned
cheeks, a cough, a laugh, blasting
rock from the 80s on a broken green
stereo, bad tv shows at 3 AM, too much
wet tongue kissing and
mildew on the crumbling bathroom tiles.
how to write a love poem(only if you want to fail)You gave me a piece of paper,how to write a love poem(only if you want to fail)2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And told me to write a poem
so I bent, broke, twisted the harmless thing
Used the ink as glue
And made us paper wings
You whispered, "let's go"
Standing on the edge of the world
then we jumped
hanging by a contraption
of the figments of my imagination.
We were flying so high
We said we'd never come down
Just as the sun burned away the paper.
One precious moment of paradox
It's a pity we remembered to die
before we came crashing to the ground.
The sensation would've been something
if you gaze for too longand maybe i think right now i'm supposed to be feeling something like sadness,if you gaze for too long2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but there is none of that
for feeling left me long ago when i told myself
that there was nothing left
in you for me
and this emptiness is comforting,
in its all encompassing promise
that no darling, you'll never
feel alone again
you'll never feel the sting, the bite,
the winter cold
but with it comes the tendrils of darkness
that wrap around our irises
and remind us
that no, it will not be same
pretty, brown haired boy.
it will not be the same
MoonMoonMoon2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You left the knife on the drainboard,
bits of lettuce scattered like green rice.
We should get married, you tell me,
this house tight as a ring around us.
In every room, sleep waits for me.
Sometimes I wake sprawled on the wooden floor
not remembering that I fell.
Things blur, the copper pans
hanging on the wall swell in tight glowing bellies
woven rugs flow like rivers.
At night, your face flowers into an open moon,
filling our bed with light
There is no place left to hide.