Miscellaneous Unfinished Poetry

Call me “Carrot” • 21 • she/her • 18+ !! a place for me to spill out my most rambly, raw, mostly unedited/unpolished poetry and stream-of-consciousness writing without most knowing who I am •••I love you•••

[carrotpoet]

Blood Orange

Cut palms. We pick tangerines and laugh at all the stinging. The tang of the juices, stickying our hands red as we bury our nails and mouths into the sweet, orange snakeskin.

Freshly zested, lemon peel heartache, you’re all on my mind love, every part of you. I want your lips, your hair, the subtext behind them.

I’m dancing with someone I don’t know and stepping on their feet, the crowd is occupied and thick.

Stiletto through orange skin, take me into another room and promise me you won’t be nice. Hear the laughter and music behind the door? Muffle my laughter with your rough palm, muffled music.

You’re edible; so you’re flesh, skin, sweet juices. undress and let me dissect you into segments, pinch and squish you between my fingers, pondering how much the fruit pod will give until it pops beneath the pressure. You’re beneath me, under my weight, crashing, thrashing, and craving, sugar has melted on the tongue. Post-candy migraine.

So what will it be now? Shut me out, shut me up and file me through the dark door in the dim light, set me outside like a dog—tell me to wait for you there. I curl up in the shack in your yard and sleep a deep, pitiful sleep. Muffled laughter through the door.

[carrotpoet]

This account is two years old now!! This was my first poem on here. I’ve since grown from this space but I still really like it.

[carrotpoet]

Someone, somewhere is discovering me without my knowledge. Whether behind a screen or in line at the convenience store, I yearn to close the gap between your one-sided intimacies with me. To know you in the same ways I have bared myself to you. Find in you what you have found in me. I suppose in creating and displaying your creations, or going out in public in front of strangers, you are constantly exposing yourself to curiosity that you will never be able to return.

[carrotpoet]

Today, the richness of her

The dirt beneath my nails comes naturally

You return, later

teeming paper bag in your arms

And it doesn’t need to feel real to feel organic

Like I know something in a dream

without having to learn it

How our bodies swim in nothingness

Until we dry off

Under burning Venus

Quietude in your laughter

Like everything is frozen, except for time

Which takes us into elderly domesticity

And tucks us in the earth

These humble clichés withstanding

Besides, your leather coat sustains

And keeps within its pockets

These stones, napkins

And enough to keep us fed

[carrotpoet]

Velvetine

Patchouli

Your eyes like glass blown marbles

Our bodies sticking to the sand

Collecting all these itchy fables

The lives we keep on touching with

the pads of our fingers

And you across the water

Sulfurous

Intangible

[carrotpoet]

Floral Orthodontic

Playing seven minutes in heaven

with the girl next door

We can’t tell each others hands apart

in the dark

Her fingers rap across my spine

and make no noise

It’s not as easy

as telling apart the shades

Or picking a thread

as it slips through the spaces

I haven’t a mind

To do anything

besides find her insides again

At the coffee table I grow ill

and grip against the edges

My body no longer a willing captive of my mind

I watch her climb up trees

Bleeding palms

Sap and blood indistinguishable

These foul and sweet nectars

From which I lap

You aren’t infallible

But I don’t seek safety

My intentions

are not to take you into my hands to contort

It should not come as a comfort

My idle observation

does not betray indecision

Come

seek my fingertips

a subtle reprieve

Intrinsic compulsion

[carrotpoet]

The smell of wine is as heady and pervasive as sex. I spilled some on myself and couldn’t stop thinking of you. A shower and I swore I could still smell it. So here we are again. Bodies were meant to move and I had a knack for moving them. I found in the car, once, that you tasted like static. Like overripe, fleshy figs. The hot sweetish taste of sunburnt skin.

Johnny said I was a song he couldn’t remember the name of. We were at a diner and I kept picking through strands of his hair. I tried to love him and I’m promising you this right now, but I couldn’t seem to extract enough of myself. I felt like a teenager in the worst ways. I kept willing myself to fall in love like I was forcing tears. I told myself the reasons but in the water I thought of slicing fruits down the middle and sucking them wet.

[carrotpoet]

The space between the atoms

The point before the muscles snap. You cannot keep holding your breath. You cannot tell the girl she is metallic,

Multicolored, like oil on the surface.

Something like, I’d like to kiss you before I have to get on a plane, then try to forget you viscerally in masochistic ecstasy, my fingers pressed at my mouth until it feels like buzzing.

It’s Karmic Radiation. Transference of heat.

I don’t know why I hold back. I think of being six and hiding how fast I could run in front of my older brother.

I knew he was faster, so I thought if I held back I would always have an edge.

This is how I continued. Writing in secrecy. Keeping the parts of myself I liked away from view, because if I was disliked, it wasn’t really me.

My potential aroused me. Parasocial with a version of myself that only I could see. I kiss myself in the mirror. I wonder if your lips are as cold.

[carrotpoet]

Loose Candy

I think you have to choose your evils

I am not your adversary

Yet, our canine teeth have

touched each others bodies

Show me on this doll, where nothing stings

I will tell you the backs of these calves

these corners in my waist

There’s parts of me you haven’t found

How long do I refrain from decision

It’s hedonism, the ways we deprive ourselves

the only ways we truly need heed.

we find ways to fill everything but.

Our mouths suckling on smoke

or rain

The world, a sphere, an oral fixation

the money isn’t good

But when is it ever

The spaces we fill are endless now

lost at the bottom of your mothers purse

[carrotpoet]

Someone is pretending they portray me

Crude and basic, lacking in my sense

She is covered in my hands

On my cheeks, in my hair

How it didn’t used to be

How she’s stolen my reflection

I am cruel I am cruel I am cruel

[carrotpoet]

The Guilty

I ate so decently

My body stung where it touched the water

Figs and bread and soft body brie

disarming, this life of convolution

Quiet in the early mornings

It’s so funny how it’s quiet

How there was so much yelling

And I thought they’d bring the door down

And I’d be exposed in some piercing yellow light

And I’d be shrouded in the guilt that is not

reserved for the guilty

Anyways, it’s time to be fed

And I can tell your body isn’t aching

But the winter is cold

And our bodies fit nicely

I wish my mouth were soft and receiving

[carrotpoet]

Thief of Motion

In the bedroom, the window runs across the wall

as the light hits it.

A woman’s giggle

Her mouth is so sweet it catches at the

back of your throat.

Deft little touches

Your stomach

The hair on your arms

The weeping crevice

that collects all these feelings

Desire moving forward.

Everything is running

Lines on stockings

The rain chasing its tail down the glass

The girl as she crawls out your window

Holding her weight with her blistered hands

You’re left wet at the bottom of a pool

Counting the leaves as they sway

on the surface

The street lights are dancing, tonight

Everything is

[carrotpoet]

I feel incurably ill-fitting,

The tension settles comfortably across the overstuffed seats and against my sternum.

I would sleep with her right now, just to have something to do with my hands

Sometimes it feels a lot like killing someone, the way they hold on, gasp and writhe, the final fall of contented rest. When I watch the way the eyes roll, the fighting against nature, I feel like I’m taking something from them, exorcising them. Leaving them a little less and a little more.

In French, of course, the Little Death. Is my part, then, the Little Homicide?

After, I often lay in awe. How do I know the difference between what it feels like to be God or Death? A fearful creator or a reverent vehicle of entropy?

I’ve become so soft you could dig your fingers into me, draw out my segments like a fruit. I’m overdue for feeling something I’ve been putting off. It crawls up my throat like vomit.

[carrotpoet]

Who is to say…anything? Truly, who has ever had the right, to expulse from their throats and expect us to believe the matter that sits heavy and new in the air? Or, to propose with the hand to pen, to ache your wrist and send off silence, sign off perversions of cave paintings and the primal first scream.

I don’t feel as though I have ever attained the proper permissions to exist, my presence has always felt like something obscene, protruding and intrusive. In spite, my lungs betray themselves, the hand lingers, blood letting of the mouth, liberation of the mind. Though with each cacophony of expression, I become heavy. So infinitely connected to the brink of loneliness. I speak in protest of myself, and of every rule I’ve ever feared.

[carrotpoet]

I’m not sure you’d know how to love,

If you don’t know how to

get uncomfortable.

Putting yourself between her thighs

for hours,

or letting them sleep on your arm till it numbs.

I think people associate discomfort with

misery, negative emotions.

But it is a gift, evidence of reward;

because all good things require it,

and most bad things are a symptom

of avoiding it.

[carrotpoet]

Venusian Chess

You want someone to do something

Something simple that you can’t tell them

And you wait around begging for it

A dog at the door

You shouldn’t need to tell them

It’s something simple

Like remembering your birthday

Noticing you trembling

on the floor in front of them

Or wiping the blood off your face with the

Towel in your hand

Waiting has become unbecoming

And you feel ugly, something ugly is

inside of you

That you cannot extract, or cough up

Neither of you budge

The chess game has passed

It’s a stalemate and no one is at the table

You stare from the hallway and will the pieces to

move back to start

They don’t, of course

But you can see it in your mind

Satiating a fraction of your hunger

Fanning its flames

Like fantasizing you’ll be kissed and kissed and

kissed against the table

With the guardsmen and the horses all falling off

Leaving bodies exposed

Crying out for capture

[carrotpoet]

On Tuesday, I Stalked You Online

Animals,

gathered around the fire on the television screen

seek warmth, or mourn lack

Instinctually

When I see you,

I know it isn’t real

I’ve been staring for hours

Extracting my own heat

These digitized depictions

Like ghosts

You hang around in my bedroom

All lit up,

Matching my stare

like a reflection.

Wide eyed,

smiling the languid grin of the intoxicated

The tip of your nose is inches from mine,

But I cannot smell the hot liquor and

Sweet mint on your breath

Though I try.

The face that constructs itself in front of me

Does this version still despise me?

Pixels to capture your paralyzing mind.

[carrotpoet]

You see something you’re not supposed to

Shutting your eyes,

you try to outpace what has already happened

You can make yourself forget

But behind your eyelids is no safer

Than the picture in front of you

You are a camera, and your lens is broken

And the camera is a liar

Kaleidoscope, psychedelics,

It all comes back clear as day,

obscured completely, unbeknownst to you

You, ten halls of fine art collections

Imagery that revolves

Tweaks itself twice an hour

Delves into itself

Forgets the lines it has painted

Continues warped persistence

Falls out of the frame