This poem is in English
This poem should not be in english,
for you are too precious,
for these overused words.
We are better written in the Cin River,
Dividing Paris in half,
we are two parts of the same city,
scrawled in cinder block,
charred masterpieces.
When we crumble,
we perish from the top down, our splintered knees,
know the feeling of splitting like our,
burning throats,
this should not be in English.
But perhaps in Tibetan,
our tongues stacked higher then the Potala Palace,
We date back farther with our mindless words,
then 7th century scriptures,
This should poem should not be typed.
Or written down, but binded in our carcasses,
I see you in parts of myself that don’t know poetry,
as anything more then,
an excuse to say something.
You are immaculate,
and dazzling,
ravishing, alluring, impossible,
implausible, beyond my belief.
You are staggering,
and keep my bones from swaying too often,
this poem should not be in English.
But written in my eyes when,
you see me dissapear for seconds at a time.
You are the noticing, that I need to notice more often.
You are striking,
but less in the breaking, battered, rumble,
of language falling apart,
I hear you with my eyes closed.
Because you are emphatic.
And this poem should not be in English,
because nothing I have said holds as much,
incinerating aptitude as you my love,
but this poem is in English.
And I hope you hear it with your eyes closed.
-Ali Carmitchel
The Fire
The fire must have caught your throat on the way down, lovely.
If you had just run your frozen feet away…
I some how always knew it would take you too.
I can’t help but to feel sorry,
we probably don’t make any better stories written together,
however I’m sure that’s the point.
I’d truly thought the smoke was magic,
while it drew you out,
your lungs couldn’t have been more peaceful.
Half way turned away, I know you thought of last chances,
guessed how hard the ground would beat your heart,
if you tried to get away.
Though we don’t have many tales,
yours might be somewhat heroic.
Somewhat adventurous, and I guess you were an angel.
I have written poems about the way you die,
Love. Pink Rose petals.
Waiting for the end of the story.
I saw your name in the sky that day,
Leaking grey over our horizon,
And I somehow always knew it would take you too.
-Ali Carmitchel
“if you want that smile, child, you better keep running”
The soles of my shoes have long ago been broken in, I laugh everyday.
I have heard the cries of those who are sad, drowning in their sorrow, their fingertips just above water. Waiting for someone to rescue them.
Believe me I have tried to be that person. But I have found pity to be far too slick to grasp anyone who has let themselves go. This takes muscle.
Pulling you’re cheeks over your chattering teeth, takes practice. I will wear these wrinkles as if they were diamonds. Carefully made and meticulously picked out. Ma’am have you open your eyes today?
Sir, I will call you whatever pronouns you prefer as long as you promise to love so fiercely your guts wrap themselves around your chest. Every beat is another wince, feeling is not a sin,
we were made for this.
If misery is your drug of choice, this is your intervention, you are an addict, and I will not watch you go down in flames. We will stand with kisses shaped like bruises over our ring fingers.
If the first lilacs blooming in summer is not a sufficient enough reason to keep living, nothing will be. Make a list, put it on paper, make copies and pass them out when it starts to rain.
I want to see your words in dripping ink, collected in gutters like spare change, you will keep your penny memories and give them out for good luck, make sure you keep your head up or you will miss all your wishes.
Start with just one, the list will get longer.
Is it the smell of apricots on your lovers breath? You’re hearts both melted to puddles she asks if you want to splash, you will say yes.
Fingerprint the piano keys you will have evidence of passion, keep them on your bathroom mirror, they will show up when you stay in the shower for too long, keep as warm as possible. It will spread to your heart, which will spread to others.
We will be infectious.
Notice the grass in your hair, did you get it from making snow angels in summer?
How big did you let your imagination get today? Not big enough. But don’t you worry we have tomorrow love.
Make sure you keep running because we aren’t there yet.
We as human beings are so filled with discomfort, disfunction, dissatisfaction. We are so busy looking for the meaning of life we forgot to live it, casualties written in the scars on our wrists.
I have them too, but when my blood stopped looking like an answer and started to resemble something more along the lines of attention I had to stop. Screaming with every pulse of my veins, saying what I was too afraid to let out, so it let out from my skin.
I will keep talking, keep writing, and loving, and breathing, and feeling, and choking on every poem, and letting my goosebumps rise higher then the rocky mountains I was raised in. Do not be afraid to touch them.
I will ask you to join me, my toes an open pedestal for you to dance on when you don’t know the steps, I will be your drum.
Beat me when you can’t remember what echos sound like, I will reverberate your sounds throughout my lungs and give them back in the shape of cherry blossoms.
If you take the time to read me, I will make words sound like violin strings, striking your tears as they hit the tile floor, we will make music.
Have you ever thought the sound of bones breaking was beautiful? We were given these frames to hold what’s inside of us together, but we will spread ourselves all over.
You can use your body as a paintbrush if you take the time to find some paint, we were made to live diversely. If you are letting someone else create your masterpiece you need to go find yourself a new canvas.
There is always another one waiting, so what are you waiting for, go get it.
And when you finally are done, send me a postcard. With the biggest smile your face has ever seen, I want to see every pore. Every freckle should be gleaming, there will be no room on your face to even consider being weary. You have made it this far, if all you have is this second you should not have to worry too much about the future,
if you are holding off, stop holding,
on so tightly to that drug you called misery, it will get you no where. So go home and make a list, start a revolution, pass them out when it starts to rain, keep your penny memories and give them out for good luck, you never know who might need a wish today.
-Ali Carmitchel
If we are all trying to become something, we sure have some big shoes to fill.
The soles of our own so tightly fitted and less eager for change,
the things you can not see with your own eyes.
It started in elementary school, they put you in gifted and talented and you thought it was because you colored inside the lines, you spent the rest of your life coloring inside the lines.
Middle school held god in it’s rapidly shrinking gut, polluted with angry men, divorces, you hate yourself at this point.
Highschool is burned so fresh into your memory, it’s not as easy to generalize into a few specific moments, you still remember everything.
His tongue down your throat, you’re shaking so hard he stops to ask if you’re okay,
no, you are not okay.
Her hand up the back of your shirt, your not shaking at all. She does not stop, your on the floor now, it is perfectly okay.
It’s time to move again now, you’ve learned not to stay in one place for two long, there are to many sides of you to fit into this one towns ideas. You don’t mind leaving.
You dye your hair pitch black, pack the knives in your socks and leave the books behind. Those words have been put together far too many times now, its your job to find new ones.
Now you smoke cigarettes. Hide them in your pencil bag and take drags out your frosted window at midnight, you tell your mother they aren’t yours, and claim to be in love.
Not with the nicotine but with the girl, it’s a girl. She tastes of apricot rum, a poets bed, so wet with adjectives, jacuzzi bubble smiles and her tiny shorts wrapped around her tall thighs, she was a goddess.
She wanted you so badly, but we both know want, won’t pass as an excuse when you tell your cheer leading squad you are going to be with a girl.
picture a velvet hotel room, she’s not wearing anything but her desire and you can smell it from across the room, burning skin and smoldering perfume she begs for you.
There’s no use in looking at the time, she won’t let you go, enough is not enough until you are both satisfied, you thought affairs were only in movies.You are the star.
You’re still drinking vodka with juice boxes.
On the verge of acting older while actually growing up, you take on the part with flying colors. No one is fooled.
And you are still here.
Broken hearted over the numbers and still a whole story to be written.
-Ali Carmitchel
A letter to my childhood best friend:
Dear Kaitlen,
The first time I met you, you called me a Fat Bitch. I was ten.
One week later we were holding hands spreading honey up the stairwells waiting for our moms socks to stick. You told me your mom had “Let herself Go” and if I wasn’t careful,
I would end up that way.
One week later, when my mom left town, you were wiping my cheeks, telling me not to cry “those alligator tears.” You put mascara on me.
We sat in front of the mirror, spreading scarlet promiscuity upon our lips, leaving secrets in our lipstick stains, staying up all night to steal your mothers make up bag, sidewalk chalk more promising when used to make us look like dolls.
We tried to wax our arms with maple syrup and coloring book pages, your above average middle school girl face next to my below average one, was enough for a declaration.
I will never be good enough.
You left it lining my bell bottom jeans, stitched through every piece of food I put in my mouth, the only 6th grader at the gym every day after school. Counting my calories rather then the rain drops falling from the sky. We used to question why the world worked, until my body took over and questioned why I should work.
My stomach closing in like a land mine, damaging so much of my insides
I almost look perfect when the light hits.
For every bruised stomach waiting to be ripped out and held across a back bone, to be taught what it was like to
stand
up
straight.
Looking as the pavement becomes friends with our patterned knee caps. You tell me the day I transferred to Catholic School I was running away from reality, but the cushions on the pews as I prayed for everyday to stop looking so much like you, were the only soft hands I had felt.
Stain glass windows reflecting on my shrinking hands as everyday looks a bit bigger as I get a bit smaller. Because of you I wanted to take up as little space as possible.
But I’m writing to say, Fuck you Kaitlen.
My pockets have finally made room to carry more then you’re pity,
my feet heavy enough to show where I’ve been, my footprints will have been worked for. I bet they will fossilize and yours will be tossed around in the dirt and eventually buried.
I have made a difference.
For every broken heart searching for a way to open their eyes,
my eyes will be open for every second of this ride.
And yours still caked with childish make up and crusted close I will not hold your hand and lead you to safety. You will find me like honey stuck across the edge of our planet.
Waiting for someone to stick, they will have let themselves go and be failing in flight. I will be flawed, my thick bones just large enough to grab onto when reaching rock bottom.
I will throw them back up, hand them happiness with a smile and dance on our tiptoes.
We will be the creaks in the floor boards.
Broken and beautiful, and we sound like music if you stop to listen.
- Ali Carmitchel
I will rewrite your dreams from the time you fall asleep,
until the second your eyes flutter back open and I’m holding you. Molding through your sockets and grasping your muscles as years go by.
Being with a writer will leave ink stains on your bed sheets, dirty stories puddling into your ears, messy shadows of poems collecting under the box you keep your fairy tales in.
You still have that little red ribbon, and you used to wrap it around your porcelain face. Painted like the meticulously placed dolls by your pillow case. Red lipstick, starry eyed lashes, and powdered cheeks. I’ve replaced their cold plastic with your warm body and I’m starting to forget the age 6.
It’s been months written with sidewalk chalk, skipped lovers like check marked boxes on the streets you grew up in, cement hand prints slapped on my lower back as if not moving could get you any closer.
I’d get the shades on our window to collect dust from keeping just enough light out to make you perfect. Sew our t-shirts together and break the stitches as we fall apart
one
by
one
raking our chests to bear broken promises and smoky nights lit with cigarettes and the smell of rain on your breath.
rusted tears grown accustom to tasting salty kisses when lack of passion takes the kill,
knives split in two, taking both halves as more seasons and burying them beneath our closets. Waiting to be found in a memory.
I will find you in a memory.
- Ali Carmitchel
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrczSsRZaEU&feature=youtu.be
Above is the youtube link to a slam poem I just wrote called;
An Open Letter to My Home
It’s been awhile, stroking the blue lullabies you call good night kisses as they bounce off the shadows on our bedroom walls.
Loving far too heavily for such a frail body as your own, holding me takes practice. My sides will not slide easily into your greedy elbows, my neck not accustom to the touch of your lips, the simple act of embracing me could take you years.
I am commitment.
1. If you want my mouth you will suck up my tears as they pool into your gums, lick the salty wounds, whips across my back, grasp every fallen scar laying wounded on my body as if it was your own child.
2.You will carry me as if I was dying. Speak to me as if you had only words left, and believe me, you better choose them carefully. I am not scared to leave you.
3. I have cracks running up my legs, broken flower pots on my shoulders, slits over my chest, you will name every single one and date it upon your tongue.
4. You will never refer to me as your grave stone, I will be the rock in your chest helping gravity sink your toes further into the dirt. The pebbles in your socks rubbing quietly as you run away from what you want. Eventually you will have to stop, right as I begin to hurt.
5.You will never hurt me.
6. I will never hurt you.
7. I will float through the ink of every tattoo you have embedded across the battlefield of your wrists. Make museums under my bed that display every gun you’ve shot and every bullet you’ve caught. Drill holes in my floor the size of the holes in your lungs from sucking nicotine at 2 am when it wasn’t dark enough.
8. We will tint the windows yellow and paint flowers budding through the tile on our kitchen floor. There won’t be a bare spot in our home besides our naked bodies baking cupcakes and throwing frosting just to stick even closer to each other.
9. I will never let you forget happiness behind. It will be tucked into your pockets on sticky notes, laid over your bedsheets, crusted across your cheeks with my scent running feverishly on your collar bone. Shoved into the indents on your finger tips, you will glow.
10. It is then and only then, you may sing me lullabies and call them goodnight kisses.
-Ali Carmitchel
drips off the edges of lily pads
sinking fog over the gut of a lovely lake house
we’d fallen in love once
once
I placed myself meticulously
arms broken over your dollhouse chairs
legs pidgin toed leaving just enough room
in between our toes
to cringe.
she’d call me right as the sun would set
and ask me to say goodbye to the day with her
thank just one person for making me smile
thank just one person for making me cry
thank just one person for breaking me just enough to see
i n s i d e
Sunrises prick my shoulder blades with the same
pins you used to use
river water carries blood with such grace
Almost if the rapids had hips just like you
drips off the edges of lily pads
tip toes leaving tracks under the bed
hide, we haven’t been found for years
if you could forever win the game
would you stop playing?
Stolen Decency
I remember the phone call.
Me and my mom were standing in Victoria Secret looking at lacy underwear when a blocked number popped up on her screen.
She stood there for a second, a confused looked came onto her face.
How do you get a phone call and find out your beautiful baby girl was raped?
I swear I could see every childhood picture of me melt off her cheeks, every smile wrinkled indented onto her bones turn to age, I’ve never seen my mom as old as that day.
The next morning they were at my doorstep, collecting my bed sheets in crime scene investigation bags,
picking and prodding at my pelvis like the only thing left to find was a possible fingerprint, pulling out every hair that may have come in contact, spreading my legs just wide enough to see the dignity stripped from my thighs.
I swear they made me tell the story over and over and over, and at the very end every one of them would ask, if I fought back.
Still to this day people don’t know how a big girl like me couldn’t take a little boy like you and I don’t know how to tell them that you caught me from all the right angles. Sized me down like a math problem, added up my backbone and forearms for the perfect take down strategy, you had me beat from the moment you laid eyes on me.
So yes I fought back.
Every time I said no was another shot to you, every twitch of my hips another needle in your elbow crease, every time I closed my eyes another window of opportunity to liquidate me into a drug of your choice.
What happened to I love you’s and I miss you’s and writing me valentines day cards in Latin the late night phone calls the unconscious text messages the baby’s and beautifuls.
Because now my bones are hollowed out just enough to hear you laughing when the wind blows, my tongue is locked under the coated taste of your hard kisses,
I refuse to let anyone inside of me because I’m afraid you’ll rub off on them. Nothing is loud enough to drown out the pounding of your hips against mine when I shut my eyes,
and I hope I’m not just a year in juvenile hall to you. Not just something that will be wiped from your record and memory when you turn eighteen. Someone should have filed charges for theft as well, because you stole every piece of decency I had left in me.
No restraining order will keep you far enough away, a piece of paper with both our suicidal signatures will never rid you from my gut. Two goodbye letters and one shattered heart will never be closure enough to stitch up the gash you left in my stomach.
In your letter you said, “I forced you to take your clothes off and have sex with me because I thought that I could get away with it, since you cared so much.”
Thank you for teaching me never to care again, teaching me that loving someone so deeply can only result in the cock of a gun, holding onto anything too tightly is just set up to have your fingers ripped off. I can’t hold on to much of anything these days without thinking of you.
Me and mom threw that mattress away. I told her I needed something that didn’t make me feel so claustrophobic, so much like you were still right there. She also bought me Mace and nothing has ever made me feel so incompetent as to have someone tell me I might need it again someday.
I can assure you this will never happen again.
You have never touched a womans body in the way I have,
never broken yourself over the porcelain waves of her collar bones.
Sat patiently under her fingernails waiting to be scratched out onto your own spine.
I’ve tried to dig myself into this skin more times then you can count.
You have never even seen a woman.
And I’m half convinced it is a game to you,
like I’m you’re new doll,
these bed sheets are the dresses you ripped from my body.
You use the moonlight so you don’t have to look too closely,
it scares you too much to realize you ended up with one of your own,
see I am no different.
My hips bounce off your fingertips just as easily as the edge of a hot air balloon
I am just as hard to bruise even when my face isn’t caked in make up.
I don’t hide my skin, I just don’t put it on display.
This was never about being ‘intimate’ because it’s easy to hold off when you have no idea what your handling.
I was the box on your doorstep marked “contains fragile material” so instead of opening with ease you have set me aside, made excuses to ignore the parts of me that are unfamiliar.
Let’s be honest if I wasn’t a girl would you still be as righteous?
We were meant to splatter our bodies over each other like canvases, blow our blood like bubbles over our veins, inhale the scent of flesh into our brains.
You keep me far enough away to only see my shadow,
I will no longer be your silhouette, I am done disappearing when the sun turns to watercolors behind the murky mountains.
We are meant to crave the darkness placed in the bottom of our floor boards, fling ourselves down just hard enough for our hearts to skip a beat.
Be passionate about more then just the idea of each other.
At this point you are just an idea.
You can’t look at me and tell me love doesn’t exist,
because I’ve been there.
The sweat from my palms running rivers over my thighs,
looking up at the sky and thinking, THIS IS IT.
This is what I’ve been looking for,
and I’ve been looking, for a long time.
My feet have never landed on such solid groud.
You are so broken, but so am I.
I mold your kisses like puzzle pieces, waiting for the one that will make this my picture
this my life,
I want you to be my life.
But when was this ever a choice, we were made for eachother.
Gods hands personally molding our cheeks just round enough to hold each other in.
My heart beats with yours, my heart beats for yours, my heart is yours.
I can just see him up in heaven,
chuckling as he made the most beautiful masterpiece that no one would ever give him credit it for,
they think it was luck,
But I see you.
I see you when she smiles and I can actually see flowers blooming from her fingertips,
she is a force of nature. I don’t even know how she got here.
She is too perfect.
Her lips curving in curiosity around mine, digging deep into the lines in my brain, burying herself under my fingernails, in the spaces between my fingers,
every part of me that wasn’t full before has been occupied.
They tell me love leaves holes, but to this day you are every inch of my body,
you left space for nothing else, greedily devoured every word, poem, thought, idea, emotion, you don’t have to take it, it’s yours.
I will wait for the day when my heart doesn’t take up half my chest,
when the veins in my organs slow down enough to let air reach my lungs,
when my hands stop feeling so hollowed and I can touch another.
You will stay there forever,
like poison in my blood,
every broken piece still just as lovely shattered under our toes.
So do not tell me it does not exist,
because the worst part about it is,
it will never stop.
Play me like I am the keys on the piano you keep tucked up your sleeve,
your fingers indenting plastic, smearing splinters over my hips,
I can’t promise I won’t bleed.
Light me like city lights as we speed over highways,
catching glimpses of heaven when shooting stars dragged pieces of the sky, ripped the moon’s flesh, and landed next to our telescope.
Even the universe can break,
but you hold your palms to the sky, telling every vein in your body you’re ready to burst,
scream prayers hoping they will embed themselves into your pockets and you won’t forget them at the very last second.
Show me your favorite magic trick,
prove it’s all fake.
Cut me and half and roll me back together again,
pull me out of a hat,
shove me down your throat and make fire of me. I will always be the one burning.
Drink me like peppermint hot chocolate and candy cane tea,
sweeten the spaces between your teeth and learn to whistle with the sugar of every kiss that we missed so far,
Hold me as if I am the only thing left to touch.
I wonder if any other set of hands were molded as perfectly to fit your own as mine were.
If any other set of lips crave the taste of yours as strongly as mine do.
If any others shoulders carry the weight of every frown slapped across your face.
You’re just a flower drying in the back of a notebook.
Press me like your leaves, and we will wilt away together.
There are so many more poems to be written
My constant need for change gets me in trouble,
lets my finger trace the alphabet up your sternum while you shake,
but only enough to tempt tremors out of your spine,
I’m starting to think I attract disasters.
The next time you ask me why I can’t touch you,
ponder questions that hold more weight then the reason your skin scares me so much.
I’m done being anything but madly in love, I will wait.
Walk instead of stay still and hope someone stops me just long enough to tell me my shoes came untied,
there will always be someone to start and end the war.
I will end this.
Rip every poem you’ve ever wanted to write out of your throat like it was rightfully mine,
cut your stomach open to remember what it’s like to feel warm,
I will not be content until blood has been shed, and it will not be mine.
You should be scared.
I carry chains on my shoulders like the dresses you carry on yours,
sometimes I wonder what is so beautiful about a plastic face,
touching you is like having writers block. I’m not sure if I should keep trying or just stop. There are so many more poems to be written.
Let’s go right now,
Get in the car and promise me you will keep your eyes open the whole way,
because I want you to see everything.
feel the wind blow wishes over your shoulder, goosebumps forming mountains on the back of your neck.
Let’s guess what the hills will display before we get to the top,
and tell stories we only think are true.
We should leave this second.
Buy a carton of cigarettes with spare change and darken our lungs as the sun goes down.
We won’t tell anyone.
I don’t mind sleeping in the bed of a truck as long as we can see the stars.
As long as we are holding hands and sipping wine,
I’ll pick you some flowers by the side of the road when your eyes get tired.
We can listen to owl city at dawn and talk about god like we heard him personally.
I don’t care what I miss here, because I know I’ll come back, but I’m ready to adventure.
Let’s run away my dear,
Like there’s something we are after.
“I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mothers name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones.”
I can tell you for sure there haven’t been many, and I can also let you know that I’ve made it seem like there may have been more, but I was lying,
Just one.
I loved her because she asked me to, kissed her because she refused me, danced with her because she was incapable of moving, I’ve always wanted the opposite of what I had, and I loved her because I had no other choice.
They tell you it comes on like a hurricane, but it rushed over my life like the tide had come up and I was taking in mouthfuls of sand. Grabbed the tips of the waves and held my breath for months on end hoping my lungs were big enough to bear the air of two. I didn’t even see her till she was already gone, it goes by that quickly.
She loved me because I was a dream, she kissed me because she had to, danced with me to appear with more grace, clutched onto everything moving too fast because it might just take her to paradise someday. She loved me when she had no other choice.
I firmly believe skin is addictive.
Because I can tell you the second I thought I might not make it. It’s nailed to my forehead like a caution sign, crinkled old pictures with rough tear drops and left dents in the cement where you let me fall. There was only one day I thought I might forever be frozen in that moment. You don’t understand what it is like to be denied one of your rights. You were like my freedom.
But you also taught me home is not a place, you set me in the most deserted of terrains and kept me feeling like I belonged somewhere. Buried me in dust and caught me on fire, home is the back of my neck. The rub of my palms to my cheek, my fingers on my hips, breaking barriers in myself I will never be able to show. The best I can do is right you this poem.
But my bedroom was blue. With pink sheets and Junie B Jones books, all I ever wanted to do was learn.
But I learned more about jealousy, more about digging your hands into the heart of another and playing thumb wars, the nights when you want nothing more then to dissapear because it would sure as hell be better then being seen.
I may have been in love with another but you shake under my bones. Leave me wanting more, creep under my chest like a disease and make me sweat.
I can’t tell you everything or even get close, but if you ask me a question I will tell you my story.
I remember the night I first became acquainted with the stars.
I was gripping the railing of your balcony like it was the side of a rocket ship about to fire off into the endless depth of the universe.
I felt so insignificant when you put me next to a telescope, my body not quite as full. Not quite as insightful as what you could see in the eye of a telescope.
But you kept looking.
You searched through me like an index, begged for me to be your forever but only for today.
Everything was so conditional, and even the stars could be burnt out by now, we just can’t see it yet.
We were just too busy burning to imagine anything less then our expectations.
You clearly had experienced this before.
but you were like falling into a crack in the cement by pure chance and discovering paradise.
You were winning the lottery from a ticket I found in a jacket I saw in a thrift store.
Even your ugliness was perfection to me. That night you made me feel perfect.
I keep waiting for someone to tell me I look beautiful the way you did. It slid off your tongue like words from the bible, I swear you rehearsed it in front of the mirror. Slurred it under your breath as you fell asleep not quite conscious still, wrote it under your skin, slammed it under your sleeves, kept it in letters and forevers in the small pocket in your backpack.
You said it everyday, never missed a beat, followed with an i love you, you never once missed a day ever. I know because I was counting, lost track when I got to 3,456.
And after everything I can’t bring myself to love you a second longer. Can’t breath in the lonely sunrises and exhale the dirty sunsets. You stained everything you touched and all I can see is YOU. Everywhere, Still.
I can’t wait to escape this town where everything I touch burns.
For we have long ago stained the edges of our fairytale with fire and
laid so long in the grass all the hot air balloons went flooding the horizon and left us there with nothing but each other.
You say we will always be good enough but I am far too high out of reach to attempt jumping after me.
Maybe we can’t fly because none of us were ever brave enough to try,
I wasn’t desperate I was just hoping we could give into our courage this once.
I so desperately wanted to touch you, and yet your skin looked sharp under the moon dripping across your thighs,
we were walking the line between dreams and past and attempting to wake up.
You were beaten into my brain like honey.
Cooked like an old recipe, and frosted with what we thought we knew.
I thought I knew you. Or had at one point. I thought you knew me, or had at one point.
But all the conversations you won’t finish, the thoughts too precious to even touch for fear of leaving a fingerprint,
you have my fingerprints all over you. I can see them in your pictures, around your lips that curve with desire,
up and down your neck I have left a mark on you that maybe only I can see because I have the same ones,
but we were never close enough to actually hold one another,
embrace the others back bone and let our tongues slip loose from everything we thought we had to say.
We only touched in fascination.
I never found the holes in your skin and embroidered patches over your chest with lovely flowers blooming heart strings,
We kept that door only wide enough to get a glimpse of the other side but we never actually stepped through,
for some reason I thought we could make good use of our time and change the ending to our story.
I may always have you written in my notebooks,
physical evidence of your presence and your fingerprints on my spine.
But you haven’t laid yourself in my skin, you have yet to discover any part of intimacy laced through my eyelashes, my arms shaking from holding you so tight,
our skeletons getting close enough to feel the other breathe,
it is quite ironic we think we have a fairytale,
when neither of us are willing to even open up the book.
That is my rant for you.
If I could give you the button to the switch on my heart I would.
Hand you the little controller that tells me when and when not to love and give it to you forever,
Make you take care of it for me. Man I would try.
You could turn it on everyday when I’d wake up next to you, touch the power button like the snooze on your alarm clock,
You can keep it on every second that you want me and turn it off the day you don’t because I clearly don’t have much control.
It’s been broken for awhile.
It turned on as you were getting fed up and turned off when you could actually stand me. I honestly have a problem.
Because for some reason the moment I saw you again its been making funny noises and won’t turn off. Keeping me awake, and throbbing in my chest.
Is that normal?
No.
But unfortunately I think this is permanent, and I hope since it’s broken it will turn of pretty soon and let me sleep at night without thinking of you.
It might not, and that would be okay too, but either way. My lungs are burning up and I can’t stop thinking you’re the one that got away.
