Ink Stain Art

All I do is write bitter poems and cry.

[write-vs-right]

I used to sleep with the TV on To control the channel of my thoughts Why did I do that? Click. Kill yourself. Click. Pick up the knife again. Click. Figure out how much debt your student loans are leaving you in. Click. What is the limit of outer space? Click. I used to sleep with the TV on top volume to tune out questions I couldn’t answer and solutions I didn’t want to swallow. I became so tired of drowning out noise with noise. But then I met you. When I met you, There was silence and I thought: This is what they call peace of mind Finally my mind wasn’t in pieces. For the first time I slept in silence. For the first time I was unafraid of the dark. There was no changing channels when the only signal I received was from you. The only questions and solutions were you. And love is the easiest painkiller to swallow, it goes down like honey and if you’re lucky, traps the flock of butterflies in your stomach. The limit of outerspace is infinite in the way we are infinite when or limbs are a labyrinth of which there is no way out. It is infinite in the way my skin became yours and there came a point of no distinction. Outerspace is infinite in the way some hurting never stops. I remember the last time I talked to you clearly, like a wound that is bound to leave deformation scars. I said, it’s funny how we’re not even friends anymore. You said, “I know.” And the emptiness echoed in the hollows of myself I had never known to exist. Some hurting is infinite, it comes in waves like nausea or pleasure, but it never ceases to flow. Some bruises hurt in all the right places. Last night I turned the TV on again. The brightness stung my eyes and reflected a false reality that I used to believe in. The sound tuned out the churning in my brain, but there were no channels left to change. The only signal I receive in the server of my mind is you, you, you.

Lost Connections

[write-vs-right]

they tell me after it happened, he took nothing away from me they tell me to reclaim myself and rise, rise, rise, as if this is my resurrection the moment that has defined me to biblical proportions they tell me in therapy, in support groups, in fashion magazines, that my body is mine but what if I don't want it to be? what if i don't want to identify what remains? they tell me to rise, rise, rise as if I am an angel, but I am no angel and I'm not trying to regain purity I am dirty, I can feel his calloused hands constantly grabbing at me this skin is not my own don't tell me to wear it proud I am shedding, I am shedding I am becoming.

metamorphosis

[write-vs-right]

i found your copy of the stranger bitterly torn and water-damaged beneath my bed the other day i reread the texts you sent when I was somebody you missed. you don’t get to leave and keep coming back in the form of sentimental memories you can’t keep breaking my heart from afar. have you found the note i left behind months ago tucked between a few books on your shelf? or have you forgotten me and found somebody else?

for all the friends, who became lovers, who i don’t speak to anymore

[write-vs-right]

i told him  blue moon beer was supposed to be served with an orange but instead of replying  he kissed me, my face between  his alabaster hands my back pressed against the cool cool glass of a 3rd story window outside, police sirens  sounded breaking through the fog trying to come in his window overlooked  a rusting fire escape and I was already imagining escaping this mess and finding my way back to you

washington heights

[write-vs-right]

i have stopped praying for you to come back while kneeling on the holy floor of your bedroom, suffering is the place between loving you and forgetting you have left, but the door is still open i am still waiting waiting waiting do you remember when you were afraid that I would leave?

[write-vs-right]

losing sight of who i was in your eyes cut me open to find tangled wires and empty sighs were they more full of life or just easier to repair? you love playing god but i'm not holy enough to hold it takes patience to wait for good seeds to sprout in what's left of my soul i used to believe people were good enough to collect a loved one's remains but you, you were far gone onto the next train

virtues

[write-vs-right]

radiant moonbeams dust your teenaged skin you are awake and angry at the world but you find a home in the darkness of midnight you are sad and mad, a girl after Plath, an artist or a poet maybe hold your hands cupped up to the sky you will complain, you are full of rain, but be thankful you are not empty look into the mirror as the church bells clang trace flesh hidden bones that ache to be left alone you are so very, very lonely but you are not alone the rain, the world, everything is held in the center of your open palms read history books to yourself backwards and you will realize you have never been so young and you will never grow too old you are awake and angry, full of rage and pain but you are alive! alive! alive! you were held in your mother's womb for nine months too long you are her greatest expression of love an eternity later you are rage and rain but you will shed your teenaged skin and let the light trickle in and realize how alive! you have always been

nineteen

[write-vs-right]

you’ve taken all my words and placed them in your pocket- sized notebook i am reduced to a one page memory: half erotic half heartbreak i still taste you in empty bottles of rum the bitter aftertaste of disappointment i still hear your voice below subway platforms louder than the roar of the train I missed I still think about jumping but the numbness anchors me to the lonely cement.

I still read your blog posts

[write-vs-right]

The only thing worse than the last kiss is the kiss that comes 8 months after. You have spent nearly a year talking yourself out of loving him. When you’re therapist asked, if you would ever sleep with him again – you laughed. You  walked 6 blocks and took 2 trains toward him as the clock approached midnight. When will you learn to stop loving, all of the things meant to destroy you? The worst feeling is the mattress of the bed You swore you would never fall into again. When you tell him you missed him, He hesitates — “I missed you too.” You’re in a purgatory where you’re not quite in love, but nowhere near moved on. It’s like when the drugs stop getting you high, but you don’t stop taking them. You walked the 6 blocks back and took the 2 trains home, the morning before Valentine’s Day

[write-vs-right]

He asks me why I look at him as if he’s some sort of god and I just stare up at the vibrating, water-stained, ceiling. He tells me he is not perfect. He tells me he is a disappointment. He tells me he is sorry for making me hurt endlessly. I stop looking up trying to find a god, I doubt is looking down on me. And tell him, God is not perfect, God has disappointed me, but god has never said sorry. He still does not understand that I love him for being so incurably human

Gods & Monsters

[write-vs-right]

I'm in deep again as you tell me no one kisses you like I do, I'm in love again because no one touches me like you do. you tell me I'm too much, but how come I feel like I'm never enough?

Rekindled

[write-vs-right]

Some guys will dig your phone number out of the trash, they will find the crumpled, coffee stained paper and text you for the first time in months. They will pick things up where they left off because in their mind, you’ve always been a backup. They will call you beautiful three days after they severed themselves from a relationship they were only ever in for sex. They will call you beautiful and you will blush. Some guys will hold you and kiss you and fuck you with almost enough passion that you swear it’s coming from their refurbished bad boy heart, but it’s not. It’s the passion stirred up with a few drinks on the rocks. You have never been special to them, but listen to me: it’s not your fault. Some men will leave just as quickly as they came like a hurricane tearing through happy homes. You will wonder if anything will ever be the same. You are not alone. You will only ever be an in between for them. Please don’t let yourself become a second choice when the game of love is about risk - double or nothing. You are not a bronze medal to be won. When he texts or calls late at night, disturbing peaceful butterflies in your sleepy heart, tell him it’s too late and save yourself.

How to Deal with Fuckboys: Volume 1

[write-vs-right]

I wish I had blue eyes, glassy as marbles dipped into the sea. I wish my thighs did not touch, I wish I could fit a sign between them that read "watch the gap". I wish I could brush tangles out of my hair, I wish I could unwind my curls one by one. I wish I could erase my stretch marks with the same careful fingers that trace them in front of the mirror each day. I wish my body hair did not grow like weeds between concrete: unwanted. I wish my body was meant to be handled with care. When I learn that cosmetic variations in humans are part of the universe's cosmic plan, Maybe then I will learn to love myself for everything I was taught to hate. I hope I will one day see I am made of magic and bones and glitter and soul. I was put together with purpose. I have never been and will never be, a mistake.

Lessons

[write-vs-right]

You’ll know that you’re over him when you can go see his favorite band play at the venue where you first met without choking on each song he used to sing to you. You’ll know that you’re over him when you stop wasting ink writing his name over and over again in every notebook that you own. You’ll know that you’re over him when you stop waking up thinking you smell his cologne, on your pillow when you know, He left months ago. You’ll know that you’re over him when you stop taking the long way home just to pass by the last place he kissed you for the millionth time. You’ll know that you’re over him when you forgive yourself for letting him hurt you. You’ll know that you’re over him when you stop trying to write poems to publicize a love that never was, to romanticize a boy who never romanticized you.

[write-vs-right]

The first kiss will be equal parts innocence and desire. You’ll pull away slightly and whisper, “Wow” as he slides his calm hand higher up your thigh. The first kiss will be full of promises. You’ll look into his eyes; they’ll be deep brown like bottled root beer. You’ll try to drink his soul like it’s the hottest day in July. You’ll look into his eyes for just a brief moment before your eyelashes flutter away like nervous butterflies afraid of human contact. The first kiss will feel like an invitation for one hundred more. Afterwards you’ll let go of his steady hand with ease, knowing you’ll see him again.   The second and third and fourth kisses will be leading questions. They will be saturated with lust – demands for more. They will be hard and fast. You’ll be in a rickety twin sized bed in a college dorm room praying nobody walks in on your scene of sin. Your hands will grab for him. His hands will be busy meeting unfamiliar flesh. Skin untouched. You’ll start to question the line between sexual attraction and trust.  You will be eager to wash your hands a thousand times under scalding hot water to wash his DNA off before it soaks into yours. The fifth kiss will be laced with coconut rum and the lyrics to your favorite songs. You’ll feel like you’ve known him for forever and a day. You’ll stare out of a wide window together trying to make out Manhattan stars that you know won’t show themselves. He’ll tell you exactly how he wants to fuck you. Innocence lost. You’ll get into bed together and change your drunken mind six times until you tell him you love him. You’ll tell him you love him. You love him. And it takes you by surprise because this time you mean it. You will fall asleep together hand in hand like otters trying not to float away. The sixth kiss will be you on top of him, tracing patterns into his smooth brown skin. You will convince him with this kiss, with your careful hands, with your exaggerated curves – to be your first. This kiss will be confident. It will be the contract between broken hearts. It will be enough to make you believe he’ll stay. It will be enough to make you believe he loves you in some sort of way. Then, before you know it you’ll be on your back and he’ll be pinning your virgin hands above your lovesick head. The seventh kiss he will deliver like an apology on your forehead. Ever so softly, ever so sweetly, at first it will feel like pink rose petals falling onto bare skin. Until you realize it’s more like a doctor in white telling you that you’ve lost him. You’ve lost him. The eighth kiss will come four months later when you finally feel as though you’ve flushed him out of your system with vodka and cranberry juice. You’ll be trying to walk after five too many drinks. You’ll stumble along Brooklyn’s uneven cobblestone streets. He’ll ask you if you’re drunk. You’ll say “No” as he takes your trembling hand and you both smile. Time will speed up and slow down and stop as if someone is moving the hands on God’s analog clock. Eventually he’ll walk you home. On the way he’ll offer you a joint. You’ll fill your lungs with smoke hoping to choke on unnecessary emotions. But then, he’ll take your soft cheeks between his palms and kiss you. He’ll kiss you for the eighth time and ask, “Did you miss that? Did you miss me?” He’ll use a voice as sweet and sticky as honey and you’ll get stuck in the harmony. And your heart will do somersaults as your intoxicated mind tries to regain balance. You’ll walk around the block three times just as an excuse to make him stay. You’ll sit next to him on concrete steps. You’ll feel tears glide down your face, but you won’t understand why. You’ll notice he’s crying too. He’ll tell you how important you are, how important your words are, how people should listen to you more. He’ll tell you everything will get better. You won’t believe him. Soon, he’ll get into the back of a yellow taxi cab, but just before, in the middle of the street, he’ll tell you to call him more. Then, he’ll kiss you for the ninth time. And it won’t feel any more special or pure than any of the other times. It won’t feel that way then but, it is. This is the last time he’ll kiss you. 10 years later you’ll see him in a cramped bookstore. You’ll both laugh nervously and look down toward the uneven floorboards. But the moment you look into his eyes, you’ll remember what it felt like the first time. Then, as your heart turns acidic, you will realize the insignificance of your lips touching his. This is when you’ll choose a book, check out, and walk out of the store. He won’t know it then, it won’t feel any different than any other awkward run-in, but it is. He’ll never see you again. 20 years later he’ll still be searching for your heavenly hands in starched white bed sheets. He’ll be trying to taste you in peaches that are as fleshy as your thighs once were. He didn’t know it then, but he loves you. He always did.

What I wish I knew before my first kiss (via write-vs-right)

[write-vs-right]

When he says he only wants to be friends with benefits, remember there is no benefit of falling in love with your best friend who is only in love with your skin. If he talks about other girls, there will come a day when he chooses one of them over you, trust me, this is science, it’s true. If he only kisses you after midnight when you’re both drunk, it’s not love, it’s lust. You will fall in and out of love with him for months, but he won’t even pick up the phone once. He will never understand that the capacity of your love for him has caused sea levels to rise. He will never realize that you write about him every night. He will never know how he made your hands shake, your voice shake, your soul shake. (Does anything ever stop shaking?) He will move on without looking back, but you can’t. You will wait years for him to come back. Darling, close the door, turn off the lights, He’s not coming home. You could love him forever, couldn’t you? That doesn’t mean you should. Letting go is an art and he will be the hardest lesson you will ever have to learn, but take a deep breath and paint a future for yourself that he never could have created.

A Letter to Myself On How to Move On

[write-vs-right]

You said I was a mess of tangled wires and I guess, you were never good at solving complicated problems. You said I was the type of girl who would never listen. And you were right. Because I do not let men set limits for me when I know my potential, my worth is limitless. You said I was too hard to handle when my knees would get weak and I refused to get out of bed you didn't know what to do, when I could cry myself to sleep. But I am not too much to handle. You were just never strong enough to pick up the pieces of me I would leave shattered in the bathroom. So I learned how to take care of myself. You told me you wanted stability, but talk to me in 10 years when you wonder what it’d be like to have a girl with ambition instead of a girl who just follows. In 10 years you’ll wonder if you still have my number. don’t bother looking, I’ve changed it. You’ll toss in turn in your comfortable life, Uncomfortable with the stability you always wanted. You’ll lose sleep over me, The girl who was always off balance, but who never forgot how to love. You’ll wonder if I’m awake in my bed thinking about you too: Get some rest, it will be a long loveless life, I’m not.

To the boy who made me feel like I was impossible to love