Writing

collection of my poetry and short stories

Posts in Poetry
Carving You In

My hands are scorched

My flesh peeling away

I can still smell you on my body like the remaining embers of a forest fire

I'm limping, holding my chest, trying to keep myself from spilling

All the flowers from my head blossoming and scattering with the ashes

You're watching me

Fleshless, crawling, the delicate wings on your back crashing onto the pavement

Hands on the ground, you carve yourself in

Digging onto the grey, hot ground you bury yourself with silent whimpers

Echoes of a past you try to rewrite and a present you are trying to survive

I have no more love to give you

You emptied me dry

I have no holes to help you dig

Skin to cloth you

Hands to finish your story

I am nothing but a carcass of my old self

Pose 01

When I talk about intimacy I don't mean the hazy, lost in love gaze you give to your lover. The kind where writers yearn and reach for in their poses and measurements linked to nature, art, and the brief touching of lips. All of that is like the brief flash after a lightning storm - brief, dreamy, and untouchable by the human hands.

When I speak about intimacy I am talking about the moments you give to yourself at two in the morning, a sweaty summer day, and a lazy winter afternoon. The way your own gaze goes from your mouth to your eyes to that small scar you carry from your bike accident. I'm talking about your own fingers carving the insides of your body. That my dear, that's intimacy. The ability to feel your own power and not feel ashamed that someone else isn't inside you giving you that same feeling. That's love. The ability to not align yourself to a thousand year old tree, a girl with beautiful hair, a random boy who told you he loved you, or to a unknown person grasping for some human connection through words on a paper. All that is waste. It's a wasteland. A emotional gray wasteland for those who crave real intimacy but are too emotionally fucked to take a real stand to try the real thing. 

When I speak about intimacy I'm talking about things beyond the realm of sex. It goes beyond the notion that our bed must be warm at night with another body or how your breath lingers when you're touched the right way. I could care less. What matters more so is how we claim ourselves when no one else will. That's love. That's intimacy. The unbashful ability to make yourself come to terms with yourself without the need to have someone create it for you. Intimacy isn't created by two souls, it is given to the sole person who ignites the fire. The lone wolf in the desert. The first fallen meteor. The unblossomed flower in the forest. All must want it first. And if you want it, you got it.

Darling, you've won.

Beloved

I'm just drifting into the small cracks of my life. The small hidden places where all my seeds reside and are slowly coming into the surface. I see it. The not so distant light that always plague me with fear and heavy eyes bursting with sadness. I live here now. I live in the dark damp places where the seeds have found its mother, its rightful home. Sprouting in the midst of chaos and nurtured by foreign clouds, I see growth. Where did they come from? What is their purpose for feeding these spaces in my life which I have denied and kept in spider webs. Who knows. All I know is something is being birthed out of life and the only words I can whisper is "Beloved".

Cubicle Curse Series: Bonding

I thought about you a lot when I was in the high peaks of the mountain. I left my safe job and home to be here in the blistering cold. It's cold up here and all I see are dead fields and patches of snow. But I danced in the empty field anyways. I could tell my friend was worried by the way she ran towards me. "Careful! You'll shatter!" she screamed. 

She knew I loved you before I even realized it.

But you aren't here. And I can't seem to cry at the idea that you aren't here. All I see are the once lush trails and the jagged stones peaking from the sides of the mountain. I could smell the last of the fall leaves and the hint of burnt wood near the exit. My heart was still. 

Suddenly we are back in the cozy loft and my friend is asleep in our little twin mattress. I could tell she was dreaming of you for me. The way she tossed her body and how her hand suddenly held mine. Sweat beaded from our palms as she gripped my fingers. "Loosen up" I whispered. But she held on even more. 

She knew I loved you before I even realized it.

But you still aren't here. And I can't seem to stay awake to have you linger in my thoughts. All I see are the dirty pots and pans stacked in the kitchen sink and the little old lady walking alone on the sidewalk. I could smell this morning's breakfast of scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon, faintly but still lingering on the curtains of our window.

I thought about you a lot as I sat on the patio smoking my cigarette. I remembered how you use to toss the hair away from my face and how you took long drags from my cigarettes. "I'm saving you from cancer" you would say jokingly. My friend opened the patio door and kissed me. I could tell she wanted me to feel secure by the way her kiss lingered on my forehead. She traced my lips with her fingers and held me close to her chest, "Your heart is beautiful, why isn't he here?" she asked sobbing into my hair.

I picked myself off her chest and returned her kiss. I held her face in front of mine and screamed...

 

 

to be continued

Cubicle Curse Series: Often

I often wonder if you still think about me at two in the afternoon

In between the coffee breaks and the constant surge of people calling your name

Or do you now think of me at two in the morning?

When your bed is warm and your body pulsates with rum

 

I often wonder if you still remember my perfume

The way it lingered in your bed and how the scents of

Lavender

Cinnamon

And burnt vanilla

Danced around your room

Whispering “I wish we can stay like this forever”

Or do you leave the windows open?

Cause the scent of your own sick makes you dizzy with pain

 

I often wonder if you still hide in the same places

If the

Deserts

Treehouses

Mountain tops

Still open their arms for you

Do they still cradle you?

Ask you about the forgotten treasures in your hiding place

The first shadow you cast in spring

Or the first time you ran away from home?

Do they still care?

Do you still care?

Are you still hiding?

 

I often wonder why I even wonder about you

In between every ray of light and spaces in the dust

Or have I fallen for your mirage?

The pristine version of your worth

When your shadow no longer haunts you and you actually get up to try