Hey everyone, as some of you may know, I write poetry on occasion. Since this week’s blog challenge is to post whatever we feel like, I thought I would share some of this with you. It’s not great by any standards. I do not know how to write poetry. But I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
June 26, 2016
Guilt. My veins bleed it, it pulses through my body, my blood runs thick with it.
I am not enough and I have blood on my hands. Guilt scars my wrists and echoes in every dark corner of my brain. Guilt warms the side of the bed where you used to lie, guilt pulls me in every night and whispers in my ear.
I was not enough. Or perhaps I was too much. I did not let you in, I held you too close. I made you soft and then cut you to shreds.
Guilt is not a concept or a feeling. It is the phantom that haunts me wherever I go, it is the hand in mine when I walk the streets. It is a constant companion, and I can feel Guilt holding me tight the way you used to. And now, now I hold the guilt close the way I wish I could hold you.
Guilt keeps me warm and keeps me sane. Guilt is what I hold on to when nothing else makes sense.
Guilt is my home, now that I am without you.
Guilt is the voice in my head, telling me that I earned all this, that it is no more and no less than I deserve. Guilt tells me that I will never love not be loved, guilt tells me it’s better that way.
A Poem for a Friend
Summertime. Warm wind, burning liquor, wide blue eyes fringed by lashes heavy with mascara, blonde hair tousled and windblown.
She is summer, she is heavy smell of wet grass mixed with blooming flowers, the hot touch of the sun, the light mist of rain on late nights spent in a haze of smoke. The warm feeling after one swig too many, the soft kiss of a stranger in the black of night.
She is night spent chasing after youth and death and things that kill us, she is waking up on a Sunday morning to the sound of bird singing and the feeling of new life. She is everything warm and exhilarating, like the thrill of a rollercoaster or sneaking back inside with the heat of his mouth still on your neck and the imprint of his hands on your hips.
She is the hand in yours, pulling you onto the crowded dance floor; the snapshot memories of blurred smiles and laughter and the feeling of invincibility.
She is the soft velvet blackness lit only by stars as bright as her dreams and the moon as large and full as her heart.
She has mascara stained cheeks from the tears that have been pushed back all day, scars like rivers running down her body, sadness that seeps from every pore. She is the pursuit of adventure in a life that’s plain and settled and the chasing after rainbows that you’ll never reach. She is the struggle to feel fine and the longing to feel loved.
She is a rain shower while the sun is still shining- the pure joy in the midst of pain, like being held by the one you love while your heart is breaking.
She is summer.
She is tipsy dancing in headlights with a bottle to your lips, she is your favourite song that becomes the soundtrack to your memories and the sweet taste of your best friend’s lips. She is the pale pinks and yellows of the sun rising at 5 am when you’re finally getting home and as alive and vibrant as the music that thuds through your veins and makes you one with those around you.
She is summer, she is life and she is death. She is nothing to herself and she is everything to me.
April 28, 2016
I have eyes that are too big in a face that is too pale, a body too thin with sharp collarbones and hip bones that jut out like the branches of a tree in winter. I have a voice that cannot sing and hands that are too weak to hold your heart and I love easily. I’m sorry for all this, I’m sorry for being me.
I’m sorry for the way I look at you like you could be my saviour and I’m sorry that I’ve made a home in the cavity in your chest when we both know you’re destined to move on and that I am rooted here like a tree. I’m sorry for the way I touch you like I could set fire to your skin because the last thing i want is to burn you. I’m sorry for loving you and letting you love me, because the truth is that this love will destroy you. I love far too easily and i love with an intensity that should not be allowed.
I’m sorry for making you my haven in the storm of my life when you’re already a shelter to so many people, I’m sorry I’m too selfish to stop laying my burdens on you. I’m sorry for not letting you help me carry them, for pulling away when you want to help me. I’m sorry for letting you in one moment only to push you out the next and I’m sorry that I cannot decide whether my love or my fear of you is greater. I’m sorry for being scared of you and for not knowing why. I’m sorry for being too much and not enough, never enough.
* * * *
And to close it off, a short piece of writing that I did nearly two years ago but never developed.
* * * *
We were laying together in silence, my head on his chest and his hand running through my hair absentmindedly.
“You’re going to leave again.”
So softly and quietly it was almost as though I had thought it and never spoken.
He tensed. “Why do you say that?” he asked, voice low and rough.
He didn’t deny it– I hadn’t expected him to. I had hoped, but I hadn’t expected. Maybe if he had denied it, if he had promised me that he wouldn’t leave and that he would stay forever and never leave me, it would have quelled the feeling that had been growing in me for weeks now, the dreadful certainty that he was going to crash in and out of my life yet again and leave me broken. Instead I just felt resignation.
“Because I know you better than I know myself. Because I’m laying here and I’ve memorized your heartbeat and I know how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking but I don’t know how I feel about any of this. I know your mind better than I know my own. And that scares me so damn much.”
He sighed, didn’t say anything. He just stroked my hair and I held onto him as tightly as ever. As if by holding him close to me I could keep him beside me for eternity, as if by keeping his heart beating next to mine, my own heart wouldn’t break again.
Finally he whispered into my hair, “I’m sorry.” It sounded like he was on the verge of breaking down.
Those words made me want to cry. Cry because he was going to leave and that he knew it just like I did, because I loved him with everything in me, so much that everything within me ached for him even when he was in my arms. Cry because this moment was so fleeting and soon I would have to let him go and I didn’t think I was ready for that just yet.