Show & Tell
Noah Kahan
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ojovivo

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Monterey Bay Aquarium
YOU ARE THE REASON
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Game of Thrones Daily
DEAR READER
Jules of Nature
RMH
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Sade Olutola
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"

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Janaina Medeiros
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@musingsofapoetesse
My take on Jane Birrell MacKenzie’s “Stark Reality” in chalk
hurt
I just added this listing on Poshmark: Ellen Dress NWT. #poshmark #fashion #shopping #shopmycloset
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“I want to be able to talk about you, and the way you couldn’t take your hands off me. I want to be able to reminisce on the day we locked eyes across a room, and later locked lips and hips and softer bits. I want to be able to wrap my tongue around your name, to caress the memory of what we used to be. You stood there, arms wide shut saying we were more than just a dream. But then we find ourselves in a never-ending loop where we reach for each other, and miss every time. Tell me you don’t wonder who’s sheets I’ve covered in hair. Tell me you don’t reach for me on the other side of the bed. Tell me you don’t feel that emptiness in your chest where my head used to rest. But you won’t. And I won’t ask you to. “Move” became a swear word for us – move in, move on. I want to be able to talk about you, but I won’t. And you won’t ask me to.”
- R. Velez
Be Better
"It only hurts because we are vain. Pain is only pain when it is ours. Being the broken half means little when the other is whole. But what does it mean when we were two broken chips trying to mend each others corners into one? Who loses and who wins? I don't think we were built to believe in draws. We were built to recognize failure and weakness. We were built to imitate strength, robotically. The more you care, the more you lose. The less you care, the more ass to choose from. We are built to scream 'yes' when we mean 'okay'. And to say 'fuck off' when we mean 'not really'. I was broken and like a scratched record repeated 'maybe'. It's too much of a commitment to choose between one or the other. But that also makes you weak. I was taught to be anything, but that. To beg for nothing except God's forgiveness. And even that I've been too stubborn for. So please, Lord, son, brother, sister, cousin, niece, tell me. How do I become the feminist, the humanist, the woman, the sister, the visionary that I had intended to be? How do I recover from an aching ego and become the woman to your rescue? Tell me, is my honesty my beauty? Are my fuck-ups your make-ups? Tell me... did thinking I was dying because of my mistakes, teach you how to make yourself better and stronger? I am a meager image of you. Make me better. Be me – part II." — R. Vélez
"There was a revolution going on outside my door, and I cracked open the window. The air was dirty and honest. It smelled of depravity and contempt. Words like “different” and “abomination” infected our brains. The infection was slow and meticulous; it made sure to pollute the purest of minds. To see smoke and fire was a religious experience. We thanked our gods, we sacrificed the innocent and we prayed for more. For salvation. For death to plague those who burned us. Short-term memory loss was a side effect to the open-window-syndrome. Children would know death before death was to become them. Adults would fear children before they were able to become men. We’d watch as politicians said our names in tongues, and promised a land of milk and honey. We’d listen, we’d hear. We’d tune in to the radio and Nixon or Clinton or Trump would howl horrors, and then spoon-feed us sugar. We learned to hear what we want to hear, because we’re sick. And the sick need hope. When we sleep at night, we wonder in unison, do we close the window, or do we open the door?"
- R. Velez
The girl made of clay
"Love me whole or break me to pieces. Stop pushing and pulling stop making me so flexible stop making me forgive you for blaming myself for wanting you to forgive me. I am not clay, but I am water and I am swayed and you sway me. I’m not clay, but I am bones and I shrink and you shrink me. I was born hungry with canina, as they say. But with you I’m thirsty, I’m searching for an ocean in a deserted chest. Were you born with chain-like ribs? When did you learn to take so much and leave so little? Here, take my hands. Take my tiny artist fingers. Go ahead trace those lines just so you can cross them. Give me your last poem and blame me for everything. I have learned that I forgive you. And I have learned that I forgive myself."
– R. Velez
“I’ve been searching for a place to run towards, and not from. You see, I like to joke and say I lose calories running away from commitment. The worst part is, I’m not really joking. When he oustretched his arms, all I saw were healed wounds. I felt like I was being held by my reflection. Love is a war that is ongoing. They say you don’t recognize him the second time around. That love is different, wrinkled and patient. But love, he muted me once, I was silent. My tiny artist hands were useless, they were broken. They were heavy with words that could not be spoken. But he oustretched his arms, unalarmed. He whispered poems of war on my skin. And my skin recognized them. My skin still had PTSD. Because love is a war that is ongoing. And here I am, still running.”
— R. Vélez
“I need to stop writing letters to my younger self. Lessons will never be learned, they will be relearned. Over and over. I’ve wanted to tell her to stay away from sharp edges, but she won’t listen. She will mark herself, like a map. She will trace the lines while she sleeps and hope she’ll be home, soon. I’ve wanted to beg her to forgive; to forgive herself. To know that she will be her biggest enemy, and that others will plant poison that will sit behind her teeth like cyanide. Do not bite it. Do not let it make you weaker. I’ve wanted to tell her, do not give your heart to anyone. Use it as a weapon, angle it towards others, but get it off your sleeve. I’ve wanted to tell her that even though they say the heart is an organ, it can hurt when it’s played. The pain is as real as the broken glass embedded in the palm of your hand.. Do not hold on to things so tightly. Learn to let go. But she won’t listen.”
- R. Velez
We met the way you pick up a penny and wish it’s lucky.
He wanted me to be heaven sent, to be a sheep in devil’s clothing.
How do you explain to someone your ribs are actually a cage?
How do you say, ‘I’m most likely not the one?’
His brown eyes, wide, pleading.
Begging for me to be the answer to his question.
How can he not see my body is a walking question mark?
Please understand, love is synonymous with pain.
Please understand, I made myself a burial ground for broken promises.
Please understand, I want you to stay. But I need you to leave.
Please understand, I’ve been waiting for you to leave.
When you finally do, please leave my heart with me.
Come Frankenstein, sit on my lap.
Tell me your saddest stories.
Let me watch you weep.
Come Frankenstein, dry your tears.
Sit up straight and smile.
You’re so much prettier when you smile.
Come Frankenstein, let me paint your face.
Let me make you beautiful.
Come Frankenstein, be a little lighter, a little smaller.
Fit in my hand, fit in my pocket.
Come Frankenstein, learn to walk on eggshells.
Try on these heels, it’ll help.
Come Frankenstein, give me your broken pieces,
I will glue you back together.
Come Frankenstein, I'll make you free
we all love the monsters we can’t see.
- R. Vélez
No
Something happens to you when you learn that not everyone is good. Something happens to you when you realize you're not good enough. In her mind, it was an innocent flirtation. She wanted to see how far he'd go. He was, after all, her best friend's brother. Not to mention, he had a girlfriend for more than 2 years. He offered her math tutoring, although she knew he wasn't too bright. He was smart enough to pass, but not smart enough to teach. She agreed anyway, tugging harder and harder at the invisible string, wanting to see how far it could go. They reached his apartment on the beach. She sat down with her things as he plopped down on the couch and played a film. He looked over at her as if to say, What are you doing? She slid next to him, curious to see what he would choose. After the film, they seemed to be close to getting to actual studying, until he offered to show her what the view was like from outside. They stepped out onto the beautiful, clear beach, and looked up to the sky. She hadn't seen such clear stars in her life, always living in a city. He reached for her cheek and leaned in for a kiss. She allowed herself this. It was warm and inviting, but safe. They went back up to the apartment and he kissed her again, this time tugging at her top. She pulled away and said No. He kissed her again briefly trying to touch her differently, but again, she said No. He pulled away, upset. Angry. "Do you think a kiss is enough for me? Maybe at your age it is, but not at mine." He picked up his and her things and led her down the stairs to his car. She had never felt so ashamed of herself in her life. So embarrassed. He made her feel like a child. Like saying No was immature, was naive. On the way to her apartment, they kept quiet. He broke the silence saying she couldn't tell his sister. But she could never. Who has the heart to tell their best friend their brother is a monster? She was later known as the girl who couldn't say No.
I want to tell you about a boy. No, this is not about a girl and a boy, but just a boy. He grew up in the middle of two forces of nature: love and intelligence. His mother would hold him like a cradle herself and rock him to sleep with just the hum of her voice. The smell of her skin would be enough to make him feel at home. His father would teach him, teach him everything he knew about being a man. He taught him how to fix anything and everything. He taught him about providing. He taught him that coming from nothing doesn't mean you end up with nothing. He grew up to be smart, and loved. He grew up to show not his feelings, but his brains. He also grew up to feel so much, it could bring him to his knees. She grew sick one day. Not unlike many others he knew, but what of her rocking? What of her honey dew skin? What of love? It was a constant battle. Every day. There was a weakness he hadn't been accostumed to see in her. A weakness that made him weak. A paleness that made him pale. She fought through it, but after all, she was never going to be quite who she was before. And the boy, well, the boy couldn't take it. He pushed her away. Who was this stranger that whispered nonsense in his ears? Who was this stranger who tried to choke him with love? It never occurred to him that she had not become weak, but stronger. One day he fell for the wrong person at the wrong time. She was a confusing girl, searching for God knows what in God knows who. There was something he recognized in her. When he was in her arms, he would smell her skin, and feel rocked to sleep. He was vulnerable. He liked it. He was a boy again. He thought maybe, just maybe, I can save her. The girl needed saving. He was right. But not by the boy. He grew into a man one day and realized, it wasn't love that made his mother weak. Her sickness made her weak. Love was what kept her strong. Love was what saved her.
How do I become the last sigh before you sleep? How can I crawl between the empty space between your fingers? How do I kiss away the sorrow behind your eyelids? Show me how to navigate the geography of your bones. Teach me the way to your heart so I don't miss it this time. Open your arms, welcome me in. Let me be better than your half, let me be your whole.
I remember I loved you in a vague sort of giving up way. I remember the taste of the beer leftover on the side of your lip on the side of the road on my side of the car. I remember the laughing and the way you stared at me hungry alive like my name was teetering on the edge of your tongue. Like the light against my cheek was divine. And you wondered, 'Is this it?' and I thought, 'Could it ever be this sweet?' And you ran, and I didn't stop you.
R. Vélez