blue's poetry

24. i write things to heal and nourish my soul. please note that this is a side blog and will be unable to follow back! if you'd like me to check you out, please message me. thanks 🌸

[mellifexfarm]

[mashallah]

[boopednose]

LIES AND DECEIT

[graybluepoetry]

it didn’t begin violently

major CW for: pedophilia i

it didn’t begin violently. it began with a friend request (an online community full of people; one in thousands) that bled into conversation that bloomed into friendship the kind of friendship where you’d laugh and laugh where you’d talk every day the kind that feels like the sun warm, bright, and burning and the kind that can make you fall in love. compliments are much more potent at the age of fourteen; sweets are much harder to resist.

they were here and there stroke “you have such a nice name” brush “i’d love to spend a day with you” brush “i wish you were here” stroke “i missed you” stroke “you’re always going to be special to me” brush “five years difference isn’t all that much” stroke “i think you’d look great in a blue dress”

stroke “let’s play a game.”

if i were a dog my coat would’ve shone.

it didn’t begin violently.

ii

it’s the kind of thing that’s so violent, so deep, that it takes you eight years to feel it and then it’ll hit you like a train for years and years and years a train that keeps running you over each time you realize the extent of what he what he

it’s the kind that is so violent that you find yourself over the toilet bringing up your dinner and you wonder why there’s no blood in there because your insides feel so torn up the kind that suffocates you so slowly and so warmly, like being buried in the warm sand on a beach you think it’s just the sunshine and heat that makes the world spin what hhhhhhhhhhhhh hhhhhhh w w wwhat the kind where you realize that the things that are precious to you can hurt you like nothing else can like no one else can what hhh-hh-hHhh-HhHHh haaaaaaaaaaahhe the kind where the child still doesn’t understand what’s wrong and only asks “why can’t we talk to him anymore? why? i miss my friend.” w w w what.he.did

it never started “violently”

iii

because it didn’t feel violent. if at fourteen someone had asked me what violence was in three words i’d probably say “fists, weapons, words.” at fourteen things like friendship and love and whispers and inside jokes and adventures and sharing secrets weren’t violent they didn’t involve anger or yelling or knives or put downs or bullying and someone you love that truly loves you back couldn’t be violent. i thought that i would see the violence long before it came to me

but someone can poison you for months and you’ll never know until your stomach is burning and your limbs go numb.

i thought i would know how it felt when the violence hit me but someone can slip a knife between your ribs and you’ll never know if the knife is sharp enough.

it didn’t feel violent

it didn’t feel violent

it didn’t feel violent

sshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhp

iv the worst is knowing that there are or were others like me that i have no evidence to support my claim nothing to support that what happened to me was real or any kind of harm to know that it’s only the warm, warm sand that my mind remembers as the bed that was used to suffocate me but the tide has come in and the castle is gone they never believe you unless they can see the footprints on the beach.

sshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhp the worst is knowing that i can only pray that someone else has been able to stop him that there isn’t anyone else like me that what we were was a horrific accident that will never ever be repeated that he never has children that he’s never near children that those children get justice if he has been

what he did to me

sshhhhhhHhhhHHHhhhhhhp haaaaaaaaaaaaah

was violence

 v

and i still don’t know if i’ve allowed myself to be angry about it at all.

[storm-cells]

Red River

white rabbit,

Spare me the details of

How it felt when you saw

The carnage.

When you close your eyes,

Doe,

Can you still see the way the river

Lapped at your feet with

Crimson tongues?

Or can you not pry those

Desperate memories

From your blood stained nails,

Sly fox?

Can you not tell a lie?

[graybluepoetry]

things to beat back the tidal wave

things to beat back the tidal wave (in no particular order):

your voice when you sang

your infectious happiness and tomfoolery

an afternoon talking on your trampoline

kissing in foolish places and foolish times 

your writing on my fucking shirt “thanks for it” after we kissed for the first time

the pair of earrings you gave me

all of the annoying endearing and infuriating things you did (it was like you had a brand):

your king julian accent, for starters. that was your stunt, your thing, when i first met you.

the year at camp that you decided it would be great to lick as many elbows as you could because you discovered no one can really feel a tongue on their elbow

that time you ran on stage without a shirt during rehearsal at camp? god, susan was so angry, but looking back, she really needed to loosen up. and it was funny.

that time you wrote the lyrics to the song you were auditioning for our local singing talent show on your hand and said that you didn’t think they’d notice (they noticed)

and how right before auditions began, you ran up on to the stage and sang “one week” by the barenaked ladies just as the judges were coming out 

how you told me that you played “i just had sex” off of your phone immediately after you had sex for the first time (what? who does that? only you)

how sex jokes were really your favourite joke once you figured them out. any long object, any opportunity to fit in a “that’s what she said” joke, any accidental innuendo was game for your dirty mind (oh, i learned to love it, like an idiot)

things to soften the inferno (in no particular order):

remember the boy who was so sad when he told me that all of the girls he’d been with since me had cheated on him. and how angry and sad i was for him.

remember the boy who dressed up as a minion for halloween because he was jaundiced

remember the boy who broke up with me over facebook and then apologized and apologized and apologized again when he thought he was on his deathbed

remember the boy who asked me for my family’s cinnamon buns because he was in the hospital and had cancer, and thereby informing me that he actually had cancer

the boy who fundraised to get better tvs for sick kids’ transplant wing

the boy who called me and said that he was so sad and didn’t want to fight anymore

remember that boy

not only the one who lied to me to protect me in his own way.

things to remember the sunshine: 

read above

(on how i don’t want to be a tidal wave anymore)

[graybluepoetry]

i love how your sighs sounded like music. like bells, like the beat of a drum i couldn’t help but follow. i love how i could feel your body react to me. like somehow i had closed a circuit in your body and released joy into your hips. i love how i could hear the desire in your voice like it was constricting your throat and how your kisses created the same effect in mine. maybe i only fall in love when you kiss me. maybe i only fall in love when you tell me where you want me to touch you. maybe i only fall in love with the way i can kiss your jawline. if i do, at least then i am in love, in giving love, and creating happiness (i pray) for the both of us.

[graybluepoetry]

the first time is so easy. you don’t know the consequences of someone tripping over your sobs and fears, or how excruciating it is to put back together your heart, shard by shard. you end up looking for every last one but there must be 1000s of them.

i’ve lost track how many pieces i’ve found and glued back into my heart now, what pieces it’s still missing, or how many cuts and puncture wounds i incurred when he kept punching his feelings into the glass, shattering another ventricle as i was holding it. i’ve just wiped up the blood, ran it under cold water, bandaged it up and moved on.

but i like my hands uncut. that’s why the second time is not so easy.

 - falling in love // blue

[graybluepoetry]

let me slip between the edges of your mind.

(ironic how tightly sealed you are given how eager you were to slip between my legs.) // blue

[graybluepoetry]

“so quickly i melted. i am angry at my composition, angry that i cannot help but puddle under the warmth of your flirtation, soft touches, and cheek kisses. i cannot help whether i am built like ice and you a candle, stroking my sides in proximity and i drop drip drip until i am drinkable in your hands. i cannot change my composition, but i can choose whether to see you again.”

— composition // blue

[graybluepoetry]

i am done giving power to people who only crave my outer shell. you pretend to be friends, but darling, friends don’t buy me wine, forgetting i don’t drink (“it’s just always my go to”). you can promise all you want that you’ll buy me something else to make up for your mistake, but friends ultimately show up like they said they would, when they say they will. do what they ultimately wanted to do.

because see, i’ve realized that friends don’t ignore you when you show them glimpses of your soul and throw false genuinity and fake deepness (that story again?) in exchange. friends spend true time with you and like to dip their hands into your stories, your worries, your obsessions, and your creations because their motives aren’t to worship the skin that you’re currently residing in. they actually enjoy speaking to you at length when they’re sober, and have more substance to their conversations than flirtation, flirtation, and fliration.

see, i’ve realized that you’re not a friend at all and god i wish i had realized it sooner, that i had gotten through my thick head that you only want to impress upon the curves in my hips instead of any true memories or feelings on my heart that would last longer than, what, 15 minutes?

sure, worship my body. but god strike me down if i ever forget this, and start running to you to smooth down my rough edges with sex.

 - what, 15 minutes? //blue

[graybluepoetry]

you want me again.

i can hear your whispers in my ear

this is what you want                  your fingers on my jaw this is where you belong             you place me against the wall we were never meant to part      you part my lips we were always meant to be      you part my legs just like this                                 you part my heart

and in the kiss i remember why you’re so seductive, why i craved your figure and your taste so badly. those nights you bruised me, threw insults until i was ready to give up on everything you helped me pick up the pieces too and held me when no one else would.

no, no but this time i don’t want it i don’t want you, i don’t want this again, i won’t allow you inside of me again i don’t want your words or your fingers or your lips

get off of me get off of me get off of me i will be stronger this time //blue

[graybluepoetry]

the first time is so easy. you don’t know the consequences of someone tripping over your sobs and fears, or how excruciating it is to put back together your heart, shard by shard. you end up looking for every last one but there must be 1000s of them.

i’ve lost track how many pieces i’ve found and glued back into my heart now, what pieces it’s still missing, or how many cuts and puncture wounds i incurred when he kept punching his feelings into the glass, shattering another ventricle as i was holding it. i’ve just wiped up the blood, ran it under cold water, bandaged it up and moved on.

but i like my hands uncut. that’s why the second time is not so easy.

 - falling in love // blue

[graybluepoetry]

i thought i wasn’t afraid to fall in love again until i noticed that my hands begin to shake every time someone comes a little too close to the glass.

 - window shopping // blue

[graybluepoetry]

i can’t tell if i’m a weak cup of chai too bitter watered down to be any good, or if i’m a cup of warm milk with a touch of elaichi cardamom & cinnamon giving it a spike it wouldn’t normally have.

either way

i think i’m an acquired taste. //blue

[graybluepoetry]

i’m having trouble holding things.

when i was younger, i felt light, uninhibited in every way. then i began to offer my hands to my mother, then my father, and my sister and i always held hands and so i began to hold things.

i just kept putting things in my hands, holding tight onto grapefruits, lemons, limes, dirty laundry, dirty bed sheets, dirty secrets, heavy baggage and heavy baggage and heavy baggage and heavy baggage so much baggage.

and now i’m trying to understand why my hands must be hurting, why they’re dripping in sour memories, why it all became too heavy. i think i finally put it all down.

no wonder my hands hurt. no wonder my hands hurt no wonder my hands hurt.

 - my hands // blue

[graybluepoetry]

[side note: if we are as artists supposed to be vulnerable, and if vulnerability is to allow others to see and even take our darkest, scariest, tenderest, deepest, softest, or most precious pieces of ourselves, what is there of us left for us? what do we keep for ourselves?]

//blue

[graybluepoetry]

happiness doesn’t come in a pill.

[hear me out]

pills keep you above the water, like a life ring.

life rings can save you from drowning, and from going under again

but they cannot make you enjoy the sun at the surface.

//blue