"is that what you think?"
"yeah, it is," she says, "maybe i'm wrong, though. i don't know. i've just never really understood why people think kissing scars is going to make them go away. or that saying suicide is beautiful is going to make it stop."
"because everyone wants to be beautiful, right?" he touches her hand, again.
"yeah," she chuckles, sadly, "right."
-c.h.
the parallels between loving someone and drug addiction
he remembered
the first time they kissed.
shaking hands.
her mouth.
sweet. new.
the brush of her tongue
against his lips.
experimentation.
he remembered
the first time he saw her naked.
sweaty skin.
her arching back.
beautiful. encompassing.
the taste of her
in his mouth for days.
addiction.
he remembered
the first time he told her he loved her.
tears on their cheeks.
her smile.
warm. pure.
the weight of her heart
in his hands.
dependency.
he remembered
the first time they fought.
trembling furniture.
her, crying.
horrible. sickening.
the pain of how she
didn't sleep next to him anymore.
withdrawal.
he remembered
the time she left.
opening drawers.
her suitcase, filled.
lifeless. cold.
the pit in his chest
where his heart used to be.
rehabilitation.
he remembered
the first time he was okay again.
sleeping.
not crying daily.
fine. okay.
hurting still but being
able to ignore it.
recovery.
he remembered
when they, were them.
damp sheets.
weak promises.
good. strengthening.
the absence of feeling
in his chest now.
recovered.
-c.h.
gravedigger
here lies all the sentences cut short by my indecisiveness
all the periods stapled on after words that weren’t meant
to be the finish
i run my hands through frostbitten soil
and scrape my palms on headstones
where the bloodiest poems of mine are buried–
funny how each one is engraved with your name
and i will not apologize for writing about you
just like you will never apologize for making me
not because you aren’t sorry
but because you don’t realize that it’s your fault
i didn’t ask to be a poet
although it is my fault that i’ve let it ruin my life
i wish i could stifle the urge to bleed onto pages
i wish i didn’t have to bury every sweet song
you had ever whispered in my ear
is this a love poem or an apology letter?
i can’t tell the difference between them anymore–
mostly because i love you, but i’m sorry for it.
-c.h.
we are the new americana
we spend our days hiding liquor bottles under our car seats and cigarette packs in our nightstands and our grandparents scowl and tell us we are dooming the country but they always conveniently forget that their generation used dogs and firehoses to stop a protest that harmed nothing but their privilege and they shot a man on a hotel balcony just because he saw the unfairness in the web of society because it was always stickier where his people were stepping. we swallow pills to numb the pain more than we should and our parents scowl and tell us we are going to be destructive and selfish but they always seem to leave out the many times that their generation watched the gay boys get punched and knocked over in school and they never lifted a finger to help them because they thought that being heartlessly normal was better than helping someone who was different. we stay up until 3 am willingly and complain that we don't get enough sleep and we scowl at ourselves because we are going to be a horrible next generation but it's only because our ears take too many beatings from our hypocritical predecessors and our words are silenced by people who think that because they are grown they know exactly what is best for everyone even though history clearly shows they didn't. we may believe that we are going to be a horrible next generation but maybe that will be the reason we succeed, because even though we are destroying ourselves at least we aren't destroying other people.
-c.h.
stardust
i spend my nights tracing constellations on your skin, my finger finds the north star
but you don't say my name the same way anymore; the syllables seem to fumble around
on your tongue. i know people leave; that is what they are supposed to do after all,
and nobody knows the reason why we like to promise light years when we only plan to stay
seconds, you promised me a century, i made you my sun to try and convince you to give me
a little more time, but stars burn out and i think you don't kiss me the same anymore, your lips
feel all wrong, tight on my skin and cold. but maybe i'm wrong, maybe i overthink but my finger
finds the north star on your shoulder blade and i can't stop losing sleep over the thought that even the sun will die, i stare at constellations made of stars that are dead just like you and--
(i know why.)
(because i am.)
-c.h.
why i cried when you first told me you loved me
i am afraid. i am afraid of drowning in the depths of your blue irises but i am also afraid that if i do not take the plunge i will feel you slip away from me like sand between my fingers. i am afraid to let you light a fire in my heart but i am even more afraid that if you do not i will slowly melt from the inside out for it has been too long since someone with warm hands has touched me. i am afraid to love you but i am also afraid to lose you and to do one will prevent the other from happening at least for some time. i am afraid of being struck by the electricity in your fingertips i am afraid of being blown away by the power behind your words i am afraid of dying because of you. i am afraid of everything and nothing all at the same time because you make me quake with uncertainty and terror but you make my blood rush and my heart pound in the most delightful of ways because with you i think i am okay and i do not know if you feel the same. i am afraid i am afraid i am afraid because it is you who holds my heart in their palms and it is you who sometimes trips over their own feet and it is not me who decides when i am to be broken. i am afraid because you have the power to give me everything and take it all away at the same time.
-c.h.
to my love
you are unlike anything
i have ever known before
and as a poet
i am always looking
for new things
to write about
i can only hope
i will be writing about you
for a very long time
-c.h.
library of lovers
in my mind
sits a library.
the books in it
hold very special
tales; romances,
my romances.
sometimes i find
myself sitting in the library
when i'm tired or lonely,
brushing my fingers over
dusty books that have long
been closed.
sometimes, i even reach up
and pull one from the shelf,
open it and escape to wha
t
once was.
there are small books that
take all of an hour to read;
they ended shortly, abruptly, even,
and they either left me wishing
it were longer,
or glad that it ended when it did.
there are large books,
the ones that take days or weeks
to get through.
these are the books i grew
attached to, and i was sad
when they came to an end.
at least, unlike the shorter ones,
they had time to develop,
and they didn't leave me
thirsty for more.
then there are the series,
the stories that were too long
and too intricate to be held within
one book.
these are the ones that i found myself
unable to put down, even when
they were finished.
the ones that i had been reading
for so long i didn't know what to do
once they were done.
there are many books
i have yet to read in this library.
there are some books i may
never open, depending on
where life takes me,
and some books
i never finished reading,
and put back on the shelf
before they ended.
i have my favorites,
the ones i like to
skim through every
once in a while.
and then i have the
book i am reading now.
i have read many books
that have had sad endings,
or angry endings,
and ones that have hardly
had an ending at all.
i hope that for once,
this book ends happily,
and when it is finished,
i never have to read another
book again.
-c.h.
the healing process
the strangest thing about forgetting is what you still remember. little bits and pieces stay behind, while what you think would never leave you, disappear from your memory.
i can't remember your face. i can't hear your voice buzzing in my ear like it used to.
i can remember the color of your kitchen countertops; brown granite, like your eyes, but even then i can't recall the exact shade of your irises. i can remember how your house smelled on a Sunday, but i don't even remember the scent of your cologne.
there is a small clip of your laugh in the back of my mind. i'll reach in and press play sometimes, but each time it becomes more and more muffled, the audio skipping, skipping, skipping.
i remember every callous on your hand, every line, but i can't remember the way your lips curved up in a smile.
i can't remember your face, and every day, a little piece of you floats off and leaves me like you did.
i'll trace the outline of my collarbone like you did in hopes to see your ghost sometimes. but nothing comes.
i can't remember your face, because the mind blocks out traumatic events, traumatic people. my mind has blocked out your face, and maybe that's the most traumatic thing of all.
-c.h.
in the end i have to save myself
he says that he loves me
because he has to;
not because he wants to,
or needs to,
but because he has to.
as if i am a burden for him
that he can't leave out of fear
that i will not be able to carry myself--
as if i am dependent on him and
his half-hearted attempts to
make me feel happy.
he says;
but you need me, i cannot leave you.
i say;
i can learn not to need you,
for what is a bigger waste of time
than holding the hand of someone
who is a ghost of the love they used
to give you?
i tell him this;
for him to not love me and leave
would break my bones
and leave me breathless,
but for him to not love me and stay
would crumble me to dust
and render me unable to breathe
ever again.
-c.h.
seeds
in 5th grade, my mother bought me my first bra. my chest was still plateaued, not yet molding into its womanly shape. i saw no point in it, as i thought i had no need to wear it yet, but my mother forced it on me and told me i was old enough that men would start staring. "it happened to me," she said.
in 6th grade, i held hands with a boy in the hallway and the teacher yelled at us until ears bled. i didn't understand what was so bad about enjoying how the blue-eyed boy's hand felt in mine. my teacher told me that it's best to avoid acting like that with boys until i was older, i could get mixed up with an older one who might have different ideas. "it happened to me," she said.
in 7th grade, i wore shorts to school one day that were a few inches above my knees. my science teacher took one look at me, shook his head, and sent me to the office to change. i didn't see what was so bad about my shorts; they were new and a pretty shade of red. the counselor who sat with my while i waited for my mother to bring a change of clothes told me that it was better not to wear clothes that give boys the wrong idea. "it happened to me," she said.
in 8th grade, i sat on my boyfriend's lap in class. he was in my chair and when he didn't move, i improvised. when my teacher walked in and saw. he screeched and told me to stay after class. i didn;t see what was wrong with joking around. he told me i should watch how i act with boys because they could view your actions as a silent yes. "it happened to me," he said.
in 9th grade, i let a boy get too close, too fast. his hands wandered my body like a map, a map he planned on throwing away. i didn't tell my mother. i didn't tell anybody. "it happened to them," i said, but my mouth stayed glued shut. i shouldn't have worn my push up. i shouldn't have kissed him so hard. i shouldn't have worn that tank top, those shorts. i shouldn't have laughed and weakly swatted at him when he pressed me against the well. i thought he was joking, i thought they were all joking. i kept my mouth shut, because it was my fault, wasn't it?
-c.h.
god, you did a fucking number on me
i keep calling you. can’t stop calling. can’t put the phone down. i get your voicemail every time and i cry because you don’t sound angry at me on your voice mail. “hey, can’t get to the phone right now, leave a message and i’ll call you back.” you sound good. happy. you sound like you’re happy i’m calling and it doesn’t make sense because everyone hears the same thing but to me it’s like you’re not sick of me. same voicemail after every call. it doesn’t change. it doesn’t transform into, "for fuck’s sake can you stop calling me,“ or, “just leave me alone dammit,” or, “i don’t fucking love you anymore i told you,” and i know it wouldn’t do that but it’s reassuring somehow that it doesn’t anyway.
i ignore that my mother has threatened to take my phone if i don’t stop. i ignore that my friends have stopped asking if i’m okay because what’s the point if they know the answer won’t ever fucking change. i don’t listen to them because they don’t know how it feels.
we aren’t finished. i tell them that we aren’t finished. you left with half the pages in the book still blank, so we must have another chance because why would you leave before the book was finished? they tell me that maybe i have to finish the book myself and i ignore them. i call you and listen to your voicemail some more.
i never leave messages. even when i’m drunk i don’t leave messages. i just listen and hang up as soon as it beeps. i think this relieves my mother a little bit. last thing you want is a child that leaves their ex lover drunk messages.
i know she’s worried ab
out me but i tell her i’m fine. this isn’t her battle to fight and i don’t want allies in this war. when i tell her not to worry she looks at me like a mother always looks at their child when they tell them they shouldn’t worry. she tells me to stop calling you. i try to explain why i can’t and she tries to explain the process of heartbreak and i’m angry because this isn’t heartbreak. i’m not heartbroken, i’m just fucking broken. she doesn’t get it. the older you get and the more secure you are in your marriage you forget what it felt like when the person you love more than anything leaves you and you have to teach yourself how to breathe and blink and eat again. i tell her this and she tries to take my phone. she tells me i have a problem and her nails scratch my skin. i am screaming and crying and clinging to my phone as if it were you and i am reminded of the night you left which only makes it worse. she gives up and tells me to leave. i run.
i go home and i call you twelve times. i don’t expect an answer. i don’t want one. but on the twelfth one, you pick up. you tell me to leave you alone. that you’re going to change your number if i don’t stop. that you don’t love me anymore, and it’s been six months so i should get the fuck over it and move on already. i act like it’s your voicemail and don’t say anything. i just listen. you hang up and i sit there and stare for an hour. i stare at the phone in my hands.
and i call again.
-c.h.
i've spent so long chasing after someone who doesn't care
my lungs crack like the ground in a drought
and i find it harder to
breathe
and breathe
and breathe
i have spent so long waiting for you
and i’m just now realizing that
you aren't coming back--
(why would you? i am so
the boys i've loved & the end of the world Page 6
