World Poetry Day

I don’t easily share my poetry the way I can share a novel. It’s like ripping my still beating heart from my chest and tossing it on a table. It’s too intimate. Too real. But…it’s poetry day. So here we go.

If you think you recognize this, it’s because I borrowed bits for Rocking Autumn.

 Bastard Babies called Memories:

I remember the night I studied your face.

The line of your nose.

The deep set of your grey eyes.

A mix of feminine and masculine features.

The curve of your full lips, smiling after we’d fucked in my bed under a string of Christmas lights I was using as a lamp.

Your cheekbones were hollow and I knew you weren’t eating and sleeping as well as you should have been.

I wanted to tell you how beautiful you were – with your hair, so much longer than mine then – pulled into a bun at the nape of your neck.

You rolled over and kissed me, with your hand clutching the back of my neck like you were afraid to let go. And maybe you were.

I remember how sometimes when we’d be making love, we’d stop. I’d sit in your lap with you still inside me – forehead pressed against yours and we’d just breathe each-others breath. I still feel the air you gave me in my lungs.

I feel the inhale and exhale – the hypnotic silence of it. I feel it more than the bruises on my fist from pounding on the door the night you left –

or I made you leave, I’m still not sure.

I was always seduced by your sadness.

About the beautifully melancholic way you were.

I suppose you felt the same.

Before you I was not okay. We wrapped ourselves in our own little world, feeding off each-others complete fucked-up-ness.

Sometimes we didn’t need to talk. I told you how I felt with how I fucked you and you did the same. We understood each other like that.

You stood outside my apartment, smoking your last cigarette in a too thin leather jacket – your mouth wrapped in an O to blow smoke rings into the cold November air. I knew I wouldn’t see you again.

Not like that.

Not laying in my bed naked, talking and laughing until three in the morning. Not with your hands on my waist and your mouth on my breasts. Not with my fingers twining themselves in your hair and staring into your eyes.

You were the only one who could hold my gaze so long, because we were ditto’s of each other you and I.

I still have the thing you gave me.

It sits in a wooden heart-shaped box, atop a notebook full of angry, bleeding poetry.

I don’t look inside of it ever.

Sometimes I want to throw it in a river.

Or at least give it back…but I can’t – It’s all I have left.

Without you, I still feel like there is a hole inside of me that nothing can feed.

I see it on you too.

There’s something so sorrowful about the way we talk now.


I followed you the other day…I followed you when you were looking for me. You blushed when you got caught.

Part of me wants to take you in.

Make us both whole again.

Give you back everything you never had before me.

To do everything in my power to make you not leave.

Instead, I clench my fists until there is blood beneath my fingernails.

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