dirt under my fingernails;

tangles in my hair. [lis - she/they - queer]

[goldberrye]

she makes my hands hurt. my skin is crackling with static; i grasp a fistful of electricity.

she makes me feel like i can hold lightning.

can you hear the thunder in the air? it's the sound of her laugh; her footsteps echoing in the hallway; the rich ringing thrum of her guitar when she plays. her smile is quicksilver but not quick, lingering like a plucked note in the concert hall— she smiles, and it is like being struck by lightning.

she shakes the room: throwing her head back, down on her knees— not praying, only worshipping the music.

i wish i could bottle up this feeling and taste it, sweet like the song in her voice. i wish i could hold her hand, feel the calluses on her fingertips and press them in between my own. i wish i could laugh with her under the rain; sit with her on a rooftop looking at stars; twirl her to the steps of a dance neither of us remember.

i wish i'd known her for longer, sooner. i wish i'd smiled at her in the corridors and waved at her on the train home. i wish i could go back in time to when i was 15, young and carefree.

i think i'll write her a letter: tell her hello, and i think you're pretty, and you never fail to inspire me, and i don't know if you like girls but i like you. maybe i'll give it to her. maybe she'll read it. i don't know.

what i do know is this:

she's beautiful. she makes my hands hurt.

[goldberrye]

i would like you to picture a circle. just the outline of one, simple and clean. a perfect shape on a perfect page.

and now i ask you: where does it start? where does it end?

is it destined to go around and around forever, trapped in a loop of its own creation?

now, do you know what an ouroboros is?

a) a snake biting its own tail

b) a continuous cycle

c) groundhog day

any of the above would be considered correct. a snake biting its own tail is an infinite loop, repeating again and again and again until it all blurs together.

the nature of a cycle is this: it repeats.

and a lot of the time it's so silly & stupid— if i had just seen it coming, if i hadn't ignored the warning signs, if this didn't happen and that didn't fall through, if, if, if, if! if what? so what? you're not fucking infallible and hindight is 20/20, anyway. you're never going to be able to predict the future so i'd love to know why you're even trying! what's the goddamn point?

if you stay fixated on the past you will never break free. picking at old wounds will only hinder, not help. don't be an idiot. quit your whining, and focus, for once.

it's not about what you did. hell, it's not even about what you'll do. it's about the thousand different pathways that branch out from every single one of your choices. your choices.

being passive is a crime, too, you know. take a fucking stand.

[goldberrye]

there's something about those deliberate accidental touches. sounds like an oxymoron; doesn't it? how can the press of skin to skin be anything other than deliberate? conversely, how can our legs brushing be anything but accidental?

i think that in a setting where touch is strictly defined by relationship and every move you make must, for that reason, be deliberate— well, there are no accidents, then, are there?

we were all trying to see this picture she'd taken— i was next to her already, so i didn't need to move, see?— and you leant over me, at just the right angle to press your leg into mine and move your head into my space, breaths intermingled. surely there is nothing accidental about the warmth of your thigh against mine, or the way your hair fell in the air between us. surely in a society so dictated by touch your actions must have been deliberate.

i hope it is. i pray it is.

(the touch of your skin is its own damn religion.)

[goldberrye]

i called her the Sun, once.

beautiful and warm and bright,

with hair like a misty august morning

shot through with gold,

and eyes that crinkle at the corners.

how do i say this? she is

the first kiss of waves upon the shore,

laughter bubbling up in your throat,

a compliment from a stranger.

i look at her and think,

oh.

no wonder she is Apollo.

[goldberrye]

she covers herself

in flowers and magic and stardust

but underneath it all

she is fire

and she will gladly burn your body to ash.

[goldberrye]

guilty, guilty.

i dream of kissing you

at night, hands

curling around soft curves.

there's silver cupped in my

palms, and glittering at

your ears. your hair looks like

an august morning.

i feel the warm press of your body

against mine. shoulder

to shoulder, hip

to hip.

these accidental touches feel the most intimate. there is a religion in it:

cool fingers on hot skin, the brush

of your hair against my hand.

[goldberrye]

when you cry, can you feel it in your fingers? does it reverbate through your bones like some wild heartbeat? is it feathered in between your shoulder blades and pooled in the hollows of your hands? does it echo, deep in your chest, like some long forgotten memory?

-on swallowing your sorrows

[goldberrye]

she laughs, silhouetted against the window, eyelashes glowing with the golden light. the sun loves her, as does everything else, gilding her russet hair and turning the edges copper-gold, caressing the shadows made by her cheekbones.

the sun sets slowly, here. it descends below the horizon gently, leaving behind a warm streak of colours.

she is basking in the light and the bright rays turn her skin golden. her lips are curved in a loving smile and her eyes are closed.

oh, she is warmth and light and love, and i reach for her, icarus reaching for the sun, hoping to be touched by the glow.

she spins, dress flaring out around her in a blur of gold. she is bare armed and laughing, arms and face uptilted to the sky as if she can absorb the very rays of the sun.

i touch her- softly, carefully- and, like icarus, i can do nothing but burn.

[goldberrye]

i make myself sick off mints and lime soda and my mouth tastes like sugar and the fragility of a bird's bones, stomach swirling with all the emotions i can't spit out.

careful fingers open the box of cookies and the feel of plastic under my fingernails is both comfort and fear. the scales in my head dip wildly from side to side- take a cookie, or don't, skip dinner just to eat dessert, swallow past the tightness in my throat.

the gloss on my lips shines like diamonds and heartbreak but the smile on my face is a double edged sword- kiss me once, kiss me twice, close your eyes and roll the dice. my lashes are heavy with mascara and all the tears i never shed, blinking slowly in the dim light, once, twice.

here's the thing: i tear myself to pieces for the perfect girl standing in the mirror and i give and give and give until finally i'm bled out, bone-dry and white as a corpse, tongue swollen and heavy with all the things i couldn't say.

here's the thing: that girl in the mirror is made of glass and half-remembered dreams, as perfect and untouchable as one of those marble statues of old goddesses.

here's the thing: that girl is me and i am her and we are both sugar-spun crystal figures standing motionless on the mantle of some dusty fireplace- one push, and we'll shatter.

[goldberrye]

the beginning of my poem diary, i guess.

[goldberrye]

backdated works incoming!

[goldberrye]

the beginning of my poem diary, i guess.