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A Crustacean’s Heart is in its Head

If I were a crab or shrimp I’d know, when I zipped my sequin dress like a shell to be peeled at the end of the night, that when a drunk man’s hands pull me in and slide down my thighs from dress to skin, guiding my hips to the rhythm of some remixed top-40 song, this isn’t love. His mouth on my neck: the product of two dollar Long Island teas. I’d know that we, huddled under blue strobe light, writhing, sweat and brine slick on our skin— are just following the beat. Heat-fueled and hazy, quick pinch on my hip: our hands, like feelers, finding our way in the dark.

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Standing on a Rooftop

at a party downing a beer, the loneliness of the world is palpable in the air around me. The way light touches— the light in the distant windows, the headlights passing below— I think of the people behind that light and the darkness between us. No matter how bright the lamp— light fades further from the source. How lonely light is: to see it and not be lit by it.

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You yourself are exquisite. Striking beauty and a clear ethereal essence about you. I can only imagine that it emanates from your boundless and passionate soul. You are a pleasure to behold and describe.

Thank you for your beautiful words. Taking from my last poem, I'd like to think that I am constantly becoming, and I hope I am forever on the path to becoming someone to fit this description!

Becoming

To say that I was broken is to say that I was whole. But a backbone is built barb by barb so it cannot crack, keeps intact when bent. To say that I was broken is to say that I was formed. But a body doesn’t be, a body becomes. Muscle must be broken down to build and a body isn’t done until it’s dead. I won’t buy in that I am done. Becoming means beauty, so beauty is an action. I will never be a masterpiece because I am not a rough draft. Finished is not a compliment. To say that I am broken is to say that I am still here.

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#poetry #poem #writing #spilled ink #original #words #stars #sketch

Space

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“I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.” -- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

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I think this thing with your hair and this guy is bizarre. Just cut your hair and get over him. I know it may not be simple, but everyone needs to move on at some point.

You know, I've actually never really had anyone beg me not to cut my hair. I kind of just took the idea after how cutting one's hair or changing one's appearance is pretty common after a breakup. And I haven't been through any breakups recently! But I remember the feeling of being in controlling, identity-draining relationships quite well and I hope my most recent poem conveys that feeling to those who are currently experiencing that kind of relationship and lets them know that they aren't alone. I think, after those kinds of relationships, the difficulty lies, rather than in the loss of the partner, in the loss of oneself. Thank you for your concern over my present happiness, and I assure you, I'm doing quite swimmingly (and I say that after just recently exiting the pool, haha puns!!). Thanks!

Fuck me your poetry's good

Thanks so much!

#me #self #girl #flowers #hair

I Made Me For Him

He holds my hair as if he grew it, and he might’ve. Told me not to cut it. Ran his hands through long dead strands. Sometimes I think I made him up. I made me up. I think I forget myself-- look back and ask if it was me or someone that felt like me. The way my mother forgets if she turned the oven off and turns the car around. I became a place the way brick and mortar becomes a home--your home-- I’d live in and leave again, until I didn’t leave him. There was me inside and me outside, until there wasn’t when he left me. And then what—cut? Whose hair? My hand holds the pair of scissors still the way my mother’s hand stills, spins the steering wheel for the third time, scared of returning to fire and ash.

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Wildflower

I want to pull you from my mind. Wet hair, clogging the drain. Leave nothing but empty holes. I will fill the gaps with snapdragons, tickseed, dozedaises, knapweed. That day I pushed you into the lake, leapt in after, laughed alone— our shirts clung to us, heavy molasses, up the hill. Your wingtip shoes, soaked step after sun-sluggish step. I shook my head. My hair flung droplets, like sparks fleeing wildfire.

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