jenna

"you could be my last heaven" . . poetry blog. 19.

[jennawantssleep]

solaris tour joji

[moreovermorgan]

Hi.

I’m your new jewelry box.

I already know your name.

What a beautiful name it is.

Your mother’s hands opened me.

Her mother’s, too.

They all sounded different when they touched me.

You are softer.

I will play for you when the room goes dark so you are not scared.

I will sing until your breathing evens out.

I will keep your rings, your bows, your trinkets.

I will keep them safe until you need them.

Hello again.

You don’t wind me anymore.

My song sits inside me,

unfinished,

It used to hurt.

I never liked having a song stuck inside my throat, but I got used to it as the years flew.

You’ve filled me with bracelets now

thread pressed into thread and pulled tight

Names that might not stay, but the bracelets will.

They smell like the ocean.

The ballerina likes it.

She has never seen the ocean.

Oh.

You’ve stopped leaving them.

You wear them all at once now

tight around your wrists

Im afraid you'll cut off circulation, but I dont think you care

Your hands are much colder now,

Your bracelets climb all the way up your wrists like youre hiding something.

l can see it in the mirror.

Im still watching even if im shut.

When you started doing that,

I thought I would be empty.

I thought I would finally rest.

Just then you gave me something sharper.

Something that is not jewelry.

You placed it inside me

so carefully.

But so angrily.

You shut the lid

like you were trying to erase what you put inside me.

The ballerina won’t stop spinning.

She used to turn because of the music.

Now she turns because she has nowhere else to go.

The blade glints even in the dark.

You are scaring the ballerina.

She tries not to touch it

pulls herself smaller,

spins slower

like it could possibly save her.

You know I can feel everything you put inside me, right?

It’s gone now.

You took it back

or lost it

or buried it somewhere I cannot see.

But something stayed.

There is a mark

in the lining where it rested.

Blood.

It still smells metallic In here, and I think this time its too permanent to go away.

I dont want to carry that, but I guess I have to.

You keep bringing me things that are not supposed to be stored inside me.

Things that burn.

Things that choke the air out of me.

The ballerina coughs now

a tiny, unnoticeable hitch

She says the smoke sits low

Her lungs burn, her eyes burn

She cries.

She says the lighter is worse.

She is scared flames will engulf her.

Even when it’s not lit,

it still poses a threat

You open me only to look at yourself now

Or what’s left of yourself in the glass.

I try to glue your face together like a puzzle

But you hit me.

You didn’t mean to-

Well, you did

I forgive you.

But your hand came down

and now I can’t keep you whole.

You are everywhere.

I show you too many versions at once.

Just like how I see too many versions of you.

One with stickers all over your face,

One with teeth missing

One with eyeliner and braces

And you with the same face but happier

I was made to protect.

That is what I was told

when I was first closed.

But I don’t know the difference anymore

between keeping something safe

and keeping it trapped.

I don’t know

if I am helping you

or helping you disappear.

I am tired of holding things

that hurt to hold.

The ballerina is still tilting and spinning, her lungs still burning, her eyes red with tears.

My hinges hurt.

Please, just open me one more time.

Turn my song on.

I miss you.

[jennawantssleep]

[moreovermorgan]

I sit and watch through glass that forgot it was a boundary

hours and miles resting in my palm

like the moon refusing to leave the sky just to see the sun

like a lamppost holding onto night a little too long

the universe forgets to finish connecting us

an invisible string tied to both of us

not pulling yet

just existing

vibrating softly like radio waves that know our names

his walls hum

like they’re thinking in a language I almost understand

and for a second I feel as if I’m there

not as distance

but as pressure

as presence without arrival

memory of sound before it learns language

the breath just before a song decides to begin

and I’m caught right there in the almost

somewhere in the night

he turns over

and symmetry distorts out of place

light breaks wrong

like a dissonant chord

A color that doesnt match the pallette

he is a rainbow at the edge of vision

undoable

Right under my thumb close

But never touch close

always just almost close

My screen burns low in my hand

Radiating heat the same way the miles of distance between us echo

a door pretending it doesn’t remember being opened

two presences

not speaking

but holding the same moment from two different worlds

like the Atlantic and Pacific

named apart

but still pressing into the same horizon,

touching without becoming one

he becomes frequency

but soft, uncalibrated

like the thought of a signal more than the signal itself

an outline of tone

a whole essay before it is ever wrote

taste without mouth

smell without place

light without source

I keep walking into it

not expecting a room anymore

just the feeling of him almost being there

[jennawantssleep]

there is evil in your eyes

i hear through the grapevine that you're fine

i know that's a lie.

a corpse takes your place,

walking with your skin loosely hanging off,

squealing like a pig, begging to be freed.

i wonder if this is manipulation from the puppetmaster,

or if you are the puppetmaster with false strings in your back.

god help you.

[jennawantssleep]

instagram is an evil place

[jennawantssleep]

i wish i could text you

but i fear for what they say

i fear for what they say

so i dont text anyone anymore

[jennawantssleep]

destined to be stuck forever.

stuck on a floor, scrolling through laughter

from the discomfort of my own loneliness

as my misery swallows me whole.

[jennawantssleep]

just know i see them

the songs you add in

cruel, sorrowful,

childish angst,

and misguided thoughts.

mayhaps when the dust,

fire, and ashes,

finally subside,

you will remove them.

but will you ever

realize how much

damage you have done

in order to please

someone who hates you.

[jennawantssleep]

i often wonder

if i bite my tongue

would i finally

be enough for you

and your selfish games

or would i just be

too quiet for your

unatainable

never consistent

bullshit taste of kin

[jennawantssleep]

friendship is going to wawa, getting the same thing over and over, and fighting over who pays. friendship is barreling back home down the highway listening to bang the doldrums as loud as possible, trying to sound like patrick stump as much as you can. friendship is settling on the same field parking lot as a spawn poiny every single hangout. friendship is sitting in silence in the car while you drink your smoothie or coffee and read each other's fanfiction pics. friendship is finding endless gossip to share and never getting sick of each other. friendship is texting each other "15 mins" out of no where and dropping everything to go on an adventure. i love my friends, and i wouldn't have it any other way.

[jennawantssleep]

i feel like we are seaside heights.

our relationship a boardwalk for families to come and build memories that'll last a lifetime,

rides that make you laugh and make your hair blow in the wind,

the smell of the sea bringing that familiar summer feeling to your heart.

but our relationship was built on the water.

and like seaside heights, a hurricane came to get us.

the rain drops of alcohol pelting the rotting wood,

the lighting strikes of arguments hitting the waves beneath us,

and finally,

the boardwalk half swept into the sea...

we tried to rebuild.

hoping it would stay the same,

hoping to do better, plan better, be better.

yet just as we felt comfortable in the progress,

a fire sweeps across the boardwalk,

taking us back several months.

the locals call us cursed,

we ask ourselves if theyre right.

yet we continue on,

rebuilding the charred remains yet again.

it's been years since we reopened.

new families come and stay,

new memories are made,

yet we look back and remember the boardwalk on the water.

we reminisce for a time that was unsteady, with a foundation of rotting wood.

yet for better or for worse,

we are still open. we still sit here.

even as the waves crash against us,

even as the hurricanes come and go.

we are still here.

[jennawantssleep]

sat on the edge of the pier,

feeling the wind hit my skin.

the tides pulled back ages ago,

the lack of movement parallels the urge to never speak again.

a hurricane rages in the distance,

inching it's way to land.

the town, half abandoned, half prepared.

the residents left their shutters closed, their doors locked, their storm shelters stocked.

yet no one is ever prepared fully.

they live on a beach, locked in late august.

storms wiping through town with rain drops of tears, and lightning of apathetic verbiage.

most of the town has already moved out.

they knew better than to build a life in a town constantly swept away in winds and thunder.

but those who stayed,

they live with rose colored glasses.

they swear the town is capable of success. that the storms come with the town, and to live here, to love the beach and the scenery, the diners and bookstores, is to accept the storms and help rebuild.

this time is different.

this hurricane feels worse.

the houses will be swept away, killing most,

finally driving those who swore they'd stay away for good.

can't say i blame them, they have to protect themselves.

the storm rages on.

the rain turns to downpour,

drenching the streets in sorrow.

each thunder crack a scream of agony.

each lightning strike a lash of regret.

here i sit on the pier,

watching the hurricane roll in,

and yet for once in my life..

i feel peace.

i feel the cold air finally hit me after weeks of august heat.

i smell the sweet smell of summer rain on the pavement.

i see the sky turn a shade of purple only used in paintings.

maybe the hurricane will take me too.

[jennawantssleep]

i am a tree planted in your honor.

i sprouted to please you, to give you something to be proud of.

i gave you my apples, my leaves, my branches.

i offered you to sleep in my shade when the sun was too much to bear.

i begged, pleaded, dreamed, and prayed that you could grow like i have.

you remained stagnant.

i gave you my apples, my leaves, and my branches, and all you threw were seeds.

from the seeds i made a garden.

watered from my tears, fertilized with the manure you made me endure,

but the flowers bloomed in all colors,

just like your hair.

they took you away from my orchard for a while.

you didn't seem to object.

maybe that's just perception.

i began to reflect.

i grew taller, fuller, stronger.

my apples, leaves, and branches left untouched.

and my garden expanded past the seeds you threw.

now you return to the orchard.

strung out, arrogant, careless.

a more entitled version of the visitor who came before.

you are stuck in the quicksand.

quicksand that you lowered yourself into willingly.

you beg for my help.

beg for me to pull you out.

but you took my apples, my leaves, and my branches.

and i'm sorry, but i have nothing left to give.

[jennawantssleep]

i feel like my brain can see the future.

not in the lucky way where i can magically stop death,

or win the lottery;

it picks out addicts like weeds and draws them near to me.

holding them close like cheap perfume to my clothes.

making them the most important people in my life.

none of them were addicts when they first met me.

none of them showed the smallest sign.

a voice at the back of my head calls out

"i drove them to addiction,

to the lack of sobriety

to the sex, the drugs, the alcohol

maybe they need to take the edge off

just to love me, to be near me, to be in my life

and maybe, just maybe,

i will never be loveable enough for sobriety."

[jennawantssleep]

no, you do not understand.

you don't know what it's like to be so emotionally tortured that you haven't felt anything in hours, haven't felt anything positive for weeks. you don't know what it's like to be on your side, curled up in a ball, on a mattress that hasn't been used in years, with no sheet on it. dim white fairy lights draped around the imac as it plays "last words of a shootijg star" on loop. the lights just like your presence: just barely lighting up the room. lighting it just enough that you know it's there. you don't know what it's like to stare off blankly, not looking at anything in particular, just blurred vision and third person memories. a singular tear falling down your face- but not out of sadness, out of exhaustion. you don't understand the feeling of the one person that your brain decided mattered at that time not calling or texting, because they're so high, they cannot feel the vibrations of you pleading to acknowledge you. you don't know what it's like to resonate so deeply with these lyrics that it feels like a warm bath. comfortable, but you could pull yourself under at any moment.

you don't understand, and you never will.

[jennawantssleep]

back at target 🖤