Poems For Camera

A collection of musings. Not genius, but always honest.

[poemsforcam]

Band Aid

There are things I don't want him to know about me.

He smells almond and melon when we're in bed.

He doesn't know how I smell of oranges.

My skin is creamy smooth when he touches it.

He doesn't know the natural softness of my stomach, or the prickle of my legs.

I will never give him real descriptions of my day, or stories from my childhood.

He will never hear me play or sing

 or hold me as I fall asleep. 

My soul goes not to a bandaid,

the way it was lent to my wound.

[the-separation]

We all have oceans inside of us Troubled waters and singing springs Muddy puddles All beating at our souls, eroding our cores. This is why I want to let my waters flow from my pores, my eyes, my words

And let you see and swim in them.

[poemsforcam]

Still mine but from my other blog.

[poemsforcam]

A Haiku of Where I'm at Now: A Smile in Spades

You can't look at me

And his smile is all in spades

It's time to let go.

[poemsforcam]

Little Promises

My nose is cold.

But I promise if you join me in my bed, I won't let it touch your bare skin.

[poemsforcam]

Disappear

Become the paint.

Flatten yourself against the wall and sink in.

Close your eyes, remove your ability to hear and let the waves simply bounce off of you.

Lose all your color. Paint yourself whatever you want to be--hide the scuff marks and scratches. 

Be nothing but a wall.

I am over you. I am over you. I am over you.

[poemsforcam]

I've got mud under my fingernails.

I'm sweaty, I'm bleeding, I've blocked you out.

Until the next tidal wave of missing you hits,

I'll be damned.

[poemsforcam]

There is an invisible web that sprouts from my finger tips and splits into four directions.

One heads to the past, I'm trying to reign it in to feel control.

One heads to youth, because I don't ever want to grow old and find myself unhappy.

One heads to confusion, a state of mind that I cant evade.

One heads to the unknown, my oldest enemy.

They are dark rooms with bright lights and loud music, they are common interests, they are inappropriate, they are iced tea at 2am. They are mine.

There is a tattoo I am trying to remove by hand with needles and lemon juice. But I am simply replacing one scar with another.

[poemsforcam]

Tried to find Novocaine today.

The search proved fruitless.

I had found I was happier when I thought I'd be able to numb you out.

But both you and Novocaine elude me.

So I am neither numb nor happy.

[poemsforcam]

I've so much anxiety over closing the book that it never occurred to me that I could simply fold the corner of the page, set it aside, and pick up another. Even if only temporarily.

You can still be my favorite novel.

[poemsforcam]

I loved you too much today to do anything.

The memories were overwhelming.

The finality of it all was throbbing.

You name literally written on the wall makes me smile

but to hear it on the breath of others makes me wince.

How I clamor for those stab wounds.

Alone for twelve hours in bed, slowly bleeding out.

[poemsforcam]

My heart stopped kicking.

The worst has finally happened.

Loving you

became exhausting.

[poemsforcam]

I want to blow smoke under your window.

Hoping you'll lean out your window to scold the smoking stranger,

and find me trying to suck in smoke

as a method of slowly killing myself.

[poemsforcam]

Wishing there was a magical connection

that allowed your brain to receive

all my hidden whispers.

[poemsforcam]

Sunday Afternoon Bedtime

Laying in my bed on a Sunday afternoon is the only place to be.

There is no other place I can torture myself while feeling so comfortable

and still feel the breeze and sunlight streaming from the gorgeous day outside.

It's too bad I can't enjoy it.

I'm too busy force feeding myself memories of you and writing poems about our jagged broken edges and how I thought they fit perfectly together

like pieces of a broken keepsake. The kind where you cry before it even hits the floor.

I think about how your words used to wrap around me like the raggedy pink blanket I had when I was 5 or my favorite sweater in the evening when the sun goes down.

I remember how you used to leave your pillow here. How I used to hold it instead of you and the anxiety attack I had when I realized it started smelling more like me than you because you had stopped coming around.

And you took it all back. Your pillow, the comfort of my sweater, your jagged pieces.

You apologized profusely, spewing sweet nothings like broken plumbing. Leaving me waist high in water wondering if I should clear the clog or wait for it all to drain out.

I'm not saying it hasn't been hard for you, but how many days have your been bedridden?

How many days has your face become a series of riverbeds to the point you wondered how the fuck your body could make so much water.

How many days did you skip meals because it was as if your own body was refusing to let you live on by rejecting the thought of all subsistence.

How many days did it take to build your bridge, cross it and burn the motherfucker down.

How many days is my image still able to run around the fissures of your brain, how many memories still hide in all the folds? How hard do you fight to keep them down?

See my problem is that I don't. I fight nothing about you.

[poemsforcam]

I stay up til 2am

because the moon and stars

don't ask me why I can't be happy.

[poemsforcam]

I walk the edge of the curb,

and turn to dark corners.

This is not somewhere I want to be.

But I don't know where to go,

when I'm looking for a feeling.

Start. restart. Start. restart.

Empty. Empty. Not what I'm looking for.

It must be in a stranger somewhere.

But I am removed and rude.

Shallow.

Dark corners lead to dirty puddles.

I jump into them.

Dirty water is still a sensation,

but not the feeling I'm looking for. 

I'm looking for you. 

[poemsforcam]

They were gone.

How could they be?

How could I manage to be so stupid?

My stomach deserves to eat itself,

my eyes deserve to leak out of their sockets,

my heart deserves to explode and leave stains on all the walls,

my brain deserves to bang it's fists on the walls of my skull in agony.

How could they be gone?

It was all I had left of you.