refined by flame @refinedbyflame - Tumblr Blog

217

Last time I checked righteousness is a payout from the confidentiality agreement regarding my shortcomings. Or is it that talking about my struggles is a felony and I am sentenced to judgement and ostracization. Bail is set at believable (not honest) repentance, if I am not a flight risk. I know what the righteous do after hours. It is made up of mostly urges. It is made up of mostly selfishness. It is made up of mostly brokenness that cannot be talked about anymore- for fear of sounding repetitive, for fear of not really being saved. It is all justified, as long as you never discuss it. Honesty is discouraged as if it will bring down all of institutionalized religion. I am truly sorry that the notion of my body is enough to entropy the trinity. I am sorry that my lack of assurance is enough to break down the gospel. How arrogant. I am sorry that my honestly is a stumbling block, but dishonestly crippled me. Speed bumps.

215

I've been shoving scraps between the bars of my ribcage- hoping to coax out the beast that I've not seen evidence of in a while. Control is beautiful, But control is a sedative; A depressant. My wild thumbing beating heart, Guarded by bone, Cloaked with skin- Was never responsible for feeling, But it was a wonderful and naive notion. I can control my pulse. I can control my body temperature. I can control my feelings. Control is beautiful, But control is a killer.

214

Van Gogh thought that yellow was the color of happiness. I do not have a filter that takes out all the blue hues. I would like to apologize if I have ever made you feel alone. I would like to apologize for all of the times I could have made you feel less alone and I did not. I talk about vulnerability like I have it figured out, like I have achieved it. When in reality, I compose and carefully curate my life. I crop out as much as the blue as possible, and when I can not, I talk about the blues in past tense. Only victories. I crop out everything too dark or too broken. Everything too honest or too real conveniently falls out of frame or out of focus. I would like to apologize if I have ever made your wild roller coaster life feel abnormal. If I have ever painted the picture that my life is, or that life should be, all up-hill. Some mornings I have to prove to myself that I actually exist. Sometimes I binge eat goldfish crackers and grilled cheese. I often try to drown anything sad in tomato soup. Some days I don't make it out of bed. I have headaches that make me want to die. At any given moment I have at least one roll of film undeveloped to give me something to look forward to if all else fails. I fill my house with plants because I need something to need me. Because I believe that green is the color of happiness. I would like to apologize for only showing my blue ribbon self. For not talking about rejection or all the times I've had to go with plan B. I would like to apologize if I have ever contributed to you feeling alone. #nofilter

Get a magnet poetry set, write weird stuff. #VSCOcam

#vscocam

212

I only want love if it will ravish me.

I only want love if it is a forest- Deep and terrifying, Leaving me wild and

vulnerable.

I want to put all my cards on the table— Open myself up and pour out the contents, Be the tour guide to all my caverns and cavities.

I only want love if it will insist that I am More than just the pins holding my hair back, More than pins holding me together—

I only want love if I can fall apart in it, If I can get utterly lost in it, If it’s the kind of thing I don’t have to have figured out. I want love to leave me laughing, Woozy, And entirely incapable of regaining my footing.

I only want love if it will ravish me.

#poetry

eperdu-de-bonheur

#poetry

3/29/12 You are the wound that lingers; the scab I keep picking. You are like that sore joint that is numb from day to day but aches and aches when it’s cold outside. I carry you around in my spine- my vertebrae knot behind you and push you like the foreign object you are; I twist, pop, crack, turn until the sharp pain is manageable again. You are the unwelcome ghost cowering in my marrow…

#old poetry #poetry

211

My garden has been fertilized by sacrifice. How soothing the jasmine and lavender grown in its densly saturated soil, How beautiful the morning glories, How sweet the honey derived from such blossoms. How gracious that beautiful things are born in death.

#poetry

210

I inherited my insecurity from my mother, As did she from hers. Oily hair and skin, Crooked teeth, Arched nose, Squinty eyes. I'm sick of my skins Chemical dependency- (Make-up adopted as part of proper hygiene) And the grotesque over dried Spit ends of over washing/drying/brushing/spraying In the name of looking clean, In the name of being beautiful. I hate that I angle my face a certain way (15 degrees to the right of the person I'm speaking to) I crincle my forehead to achieve larger eyes. Lips pursed smiled.

#poetry

209

Holding hands with their tangled root fingers- They hold each other so close; strangled. C O M M U N I T Y

208

I feel powerful mixing chemicals, My hands sometimes turn blue and green, And they look beautiful.

Once I painted my hand with emultion- Once I ran my hand through my type writer.

I am not beautiful like a poem. I am not enamoring like cyan. I am not powerful.

#poetry

206 (they say ugly cocoons render beautiful butterflies)

As winter approached My bitterness was acidic- It ate my fatty tissue & left me ghaunt; with nothing But a ribcage and the fiberous material Of unspent emotion.

I wound the corse fibers around Bone as an archaic textile mosaic- While enveloping myself in the cold dry grip of death.

Maybe when the weather subsides I will arise out of this carcass of abandonment & resulting destruction as something beautiful and desirable That prefers to be unkept and not kept.

#poetry

205

Jaws aching and clinched from that I’m-going-to-cry twisted stomach Glazed eyes agreement-

The way a loss sets in- Only later and mostly on my bones: I can’t do anything without feeling it.

I am only ever alone now. My syllables chase each other, But their small feet only ever hit the pavement with regret.

What am I, other than a liar? I twist my hair into braids and emit pheromones, not out of attraction, But loneliness.

No one will ever be him.

#poetry

204

Fingers swelled up like bread in water, But rather filled with developer- They shed fingernails like tears.

They dream of weeks dancing Across typewriter keys- In love (letters).

#poetry

203

Not unlike a butterfly in a hurricane I am enveloped by the sorrow. I cannot utter a word about sunshine, or it's occasional warmth. Everything is cold. Not unlike the touch of friendly consolation.

#poetry

202

Always on the cusp of That twirling vibrant vortex of Enlightenment and Creativity-

Where I used to spend my Saturdays With astro-dreams, and Sylvia. No thought I dared not think- No dream I dared not dream.

My palms: nothing but delicate maps, And my ribcage- a meager fortress. I whispered into the dark, And it replied colorfully,

"Child"

#poetry

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