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Stained

You have stained my blood sapphic,

And i fear it will not come out,

Not because it hurts—

But because it lingers

Like warm hands

After they let go.

I was taught to be careful,

To fold my longing

Into neat little corners,

To smile through the tremble

Of wanting something

I was told was wrong.

But you arrived

Like spring through a cracked window,

Soft light on skin

That had only known winter,

And suddenly

The world felt tender

In a way i could not unlearn.

Now i press my palms to my chest

And feel your echo there,

Quiet and patient,

Not demanding,

Not cruel—

Just existing

Like a secret hum

Beneath my ribs.

I tried to rinse you out

With guilt and quiet promises,

But the color only softened,

Turning sweeter,

Turning warmer,

Turning into something

That almost feels like peace.

You have stained my blood sapphic,

And i fear it will not come out…

And in the quiet,

I find i no longer wish

To wash it away,

Only to understand

What part of me

It has gently changed.

seabeck

Misty web

Summer Song

They rise from the soil

Like rusted prayers,

Cracked shells splitting open

To let the dark sing—

And somehow,

The sound reminds me of you.

Their wings—

Thin as old cathedral glass,

Tremble with longing,

Their hum a strange, trembling vow

To keep searching

For whatever warmth

First called them back to life.

At dusk they cling

To black bark spines,

Their bodies quivering

As if waiting for a lover’s touch

That never comes.

A chorus of tiny revenants,

Aching toward the moon,

Calling out

For something gentle enough

To hold their trembling noise.

Their song is not a warning—

It is an invitation.

A plea.

A soft, desperate reaching,

Like the breath you take

Right before confessing

You love someone

You shouldn’t.

And when the night grows thick,

Their voices rise

In wild, burning harmony,

As if every throat

Is a lantern lit with longing.

They scream for the moon—

But I hear your name

In every shiver of their cry.

Sometimes,

When their hum slips beneath my skin,

I swear it whispers:

You, too, were made

To ache for someone like a second summer,

To shed your old self

Just to draw closer

To the one who calls you back

From the dark.

#female poets #poetrycommunity #poetry #poetic #poets on tumblr #I wrote this a gag gift for a friend and it took on a life of its own #this is about cicadas #cicada #bugs #bug art #poems and poetry #poems on tumblr #original poem #bug poem #cicada poem #creative writing

I Really Want to

I don’t know how to say I love you

Without choking on it.

It feels to clean for me.

Too bright.

Like I should have earned it first—

Proved that I’m the kind of person

Who deserves to say it.

So I hold it in my mouth

Until it tastes like iron and metal.

I swallow it down

And gag at the taste.

Force a smile.

Laugh to fill the space

Of the words I cannot say,

And hope it lands close enough.

Sometimes I worry

I am missing a piece

Everyone else was born with—

The one that makes giving love

Feel easy,

Not like walking barefoot over broken glass.

But then—

I look at you.

Something aches inside me.

I want to try.

I really want to.

Belly Warm

I bite where the ache blooms

Not to heal, but to quite it.

My body remembers before I do—

How to feed, how to fear,

How to make a meal of myself.

I lap at the split skin,

Iron on my tongue like a prayer,

But it’s just the taste that answers.

Every wound hums when torn open.

I follow the sound.

I chew until the hurt gives way

And the taste turns to something

Almost tender.

When its done, I lie still,

Belly warm with myself,

Alive enough to hunger again.

#poetrycommunity #female poets #poetic #poetry #poets on tumblr #original poem #poems and poetry #poems on tumblr #short poem #cannabalism as a metaphor for love #manipulate manifest masturbate #this poem started out as a type of eating my own pain idea and then by the end im pretty sure it turned into a metaphor for masturbation #im not mad #healing wounds #secret desires #self care #sexy poetry

Only Language I Know

Why is it that-

When I picture people caring for me,

The room smells of disinfectant,

And someone is crying over a body

That just so happens to be mine?

Maybe its because stillness

is the only language I’ve learned

I deserve tenderness in—

The quiet kind,

The kind that doesn’t ask me to speak.

Maybe I built it that way—

Made pain a kind of permission.

No one ever looks away from a wound.

A bruise is proof I exist.

Maybe I confuse attention with mercy,

And mercy with love,

And love with the pause

After something terrible has happened.

Maybe this is how my mind prays—

By staging disaster,

Just to feel the rescue.

When I try to picture gentleness

Without catastrophe,

My mind goes static.

I want to believe there is a version of me

You could hold

Before I break.

Hollow Hymn

My desire for you is not as innocent as I may seem—

it devours. It blooms darkly,

a hunger that has stitched your name into my throat.

You have awakened something sleepless in me,

a craving that no prayer can soothe.

You have consumed my very existence,

so I must, too, consume all of you.

I would lay myself upon a plate

if that’s what you command—

let you taste the pulse beneath my skin,

the heat that bears your mark.

So I take you in return—

not flesh, but essence,

your voice dissolving on my tongue.

I swallow every breath you ever gave me,

until you live behind my ribs,

beating where my heart once did.

It flows through my being, whispering:

be one, be one, be one.

And I would obey,

until your breath is my breath,

your bones my altar,

your mouth my end.

What remains of me will hum your name—

a requiem sung from within the hollow

where I used to be.

Confessions of an open book.

IIII.

I am an open book,

With pages glued shut

To keep the story gentle—

To spare you,

To spare myself.

For a long time,

It felt like peace.

A neat ending.

A quiet spine.

But now,

My fingers hover over the sealed edges,

And i wish i knew how to open them again—

How to let someone read

What even i can’t recall in full.

The glue has aged into silence.

It holds fast,

Even as i soften.

Still, some nights,

I press the book to my chest

And imagine

What it would feel like

To turn every page.

Solar Flare

It started soft.

Light spilling over me,

Quiet warmth saying you’re safe here.

That’s what love felt like—

Steady, golden, alive.

But even the sun has limits.

Stay too long, and it burns.

Love turns,

Heat sharpens,

And suddenly my heart is on fire.

This anger isn’t hate—

It’s proof that I matter.

It’s the part of me that says,

Don’t touch me like that again.

The part that still believes

I deserve gentleness.

I used to think I had to dim it.

Now i know the sun doesn’t apologize

For being to bright.

So when I burn,

Understand—

I’m loving myself

Loudly.

Confessions of an open book.

III.

I am an open book.

Offering stories in handfuls,

Letting you think the sharing

Means safety.

I can talk about pain

Without ever touching it,

Drop details like bread crumbs

That lead you nowhere close.

That lead you to pages

forever stuck together.

It is easier that way—

To seem unguarded,

While the real ache

Stays glued between

The pages of my own confessions.

#poetrycommunity #spilled thoughts #female poets #poetic #poetry #poets on tumblr #original poem #poems and poetry #open book #poetsandwriters #sad poem #this is a continuation series of my confessions of an open book poem #poems on tumblr #poem #short poem #confession

No Devil here.

The fire is gone,

But the smoke still clings like incense.

His poison hums under my skin

Like a hymn I can’t unlearn.

Some nights I open the wound

And let it bleed like offering—

Proof that I am still here,

Where the devil no longer touches me.

I do not ask for heaven.

I have seen what it costs.

I do not ask to be holy.

I only want to be whole again—

To wash this ash from my mouth,

And feel clean,

Even if no god is watching.

Confessions of an open book.

II.

I am an open book—

See? Nothing to hide.

You can read every line.

I’ve chosen to leave bare.

The rest though—

The pages sealed together—

Don’t mind them.

They’re safer that way.

It is not that i have forgotten

What’s written inside.

I just learned

Some truths don’t need witnesses,

Only distance.

So turn as many pages as you can.

The story will still make sense,

Even without the missing parts.

#poetrycommunity #spilled thoughts #poetry #poets on tumblr #female poets #poems and poetry #writers and poets #poetic #open book #confession #this is a continuation series of my confessions of an open book poem #it is about how even open books can not be fully open and how secrets feel within them #feelings #self awareness #writing #writers on tumblr

Confessions of an open book.

I.

I am an open book,

Left out on the table,

My cover invites,

My margins breathe.

You can read as much as you like,

But some of my pages are glued together—

Stuck with time, or tears,

Or things i don’t know how to name.

You can try to read them,

But even i can’t unstick them.

I just trace the stuck edges and pretend I remember

What’s written there,

And listen to the faint whispers

Of something that once

Wanted to be told.

No Gods left.

Every time I was with them,

It felt so much like heaven

I forgot that I was lying with the Devil.

I drank their sin like wine,

Begged the fire to swallow me whole.

Now my soul reeks of their touch—

The saints turn their heads,

The angels shut their mouths —

No prayers left to wash me clean,

No Gods left to hear them.

Having toxic people in our lives is like having poison in our blood.

To keep that person around will continue to hurt us for as long as we keep them, just like it will eventually kill you to let the poison sit inside your system for too long.

It is going to be hard and hurt to finally remove the person from your life, just as it will hurt to bleed the poison out of your blood.

#spilled thoughts #poetrycommunity #toxic relationship #i had this random thought at work about how it removing people from our lives can feel as if we are removing a part of ourselves #but in reality we are removing the decayed version of what we have become by consuming their poison #growth #therapy #random #ramblings #self care #self awareness #life quote #positive thinking

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