I want you to call me at 4 in the morning
when you’ve drank too much liquor
and smoked too many cigarettes
and you think the world is exploding
when it’s really just a bad headache.
I want to listen to you cry and
I want you to use my shirt to wipe away your tears.
I wouldn’t even care if you got snot on my favorite scarf.
I want to stay up all night talking to you
about Plath and Bukowski
and I want to wake up in the morning
with my hands tangled around you and
my mouth close enough to clumsily bump into yours.
I’ll sing You Are My Sunshine over and over again until you
plant your mouth on mine just to get me to shut up.
I’ll even give you massages after a long day
until my hands are raw and tired.
I want to hear you scream,
I want to see your lips tremble
and your fingers cramp
and your torso sweat.
I want to see it.
I want to see all the parts of you that you’ve never showed anyone.
I’ll let you bleed when you need to bleed
and I won’t hesitate to stitch up your broken parts.
I want so much of you
and it’s okay that you don’t want much of me.
I am nothing but a body filled with black tea
and heavy lids that droop after midnight.
Because whether it is today or tomorrow or 10 years from now in a small coffee shop, I will admit this all to you.
But for now, it feels safe on paper.
Love Song of a Sad Girl | d.a.s
NaPoWriMo day 19: transformation(via backshelfpoet)
When I turn sixteen, I fall in love with a boy who only knows how to choke and kill. He tells me that I should burn myself from inside out to prove that I would tear down the world for him, then leaves with a girl with legs built from diamond mines. For years after, I hold jewels between my teeth and pray to be beautiful.
My best friend leaves for a girl who keeps her sides stitched together well – “the sky is always falling where you are,” she says. “I am tired of the hurricane.” I am tired of the hurricane too, I want to say, but when I reach for calm skies, they whip into a frenzy at my touch and rip holes into my bones. This is not Oz, this is Armageddon.
I fall asleep on the bathroom floor and I’m sorry and I thought the white flush of porcelain would make me pretty and I’m sorry and I wanted to kiss something but it ended with teeth and I’m sorry and I want to die and I’m sorry and I’m sorry and I’m sorry.
I tell my parents about the storm, one night when I feel his hands crawl up my sides and split my seams apart. With my head tucked under my father’s chin, I say they made me wrong and God’s gunning for me now. My mother braids the licks of hair behind my ear and says I am her baby – I will be okay.
I am okay. I kiss my wrists and leave the blades unbloodied. It’s been a year since the last scar healed and I am okay. Sometimes life is a car wreck, but I’ve got hands meant for surviving. I can love myself without the fear now, no bathroom floors or half-starved nights, licking love from all the old wounds I used to cover, and I am okay. I do not need boys with cigarettes strangled between their teeth or girls with nails like knives, I can hold myself hard enough to crack ribs and convince my bones that I’m beautiful, and I am okay. I miss my father’s arms, and my mother’s mouth, but they taught me to love myself before they left. I do not have to be a hurricane. I do not have to be a hurricane. I am okay.
1. IF YOU WANT TO BE BRAVE
THEN YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE
TO RISK LOOKING FOOLISH
2. NO ONE FINDS YOU INTERESTING
BECAUSE YOU’RE TOO NERVOUS
AND ALL THE BAD BORING PARTS
3. YOU’RE ALLOWED TO RUN
WHO CARES WHAT YOU LOOK
4. IT’S OKAY TO EAT ON THE BUS
IT’S OKAY TO EAT WHEN YOU’RE
5. SINGING TO YOURSELF IN PUBLIC
SO IS TALKING TO YOURSELF
6. THE WORLD DOES NOT HAVE KNEES IT WON’T FALL AT YOUR FEET
it’s like this:
say there’s a whole room of people and you’re somewhere in the middle of them all.
I walk in and I see you, but you don’t suddenly become the only person in the room. god no. you become the room. you are the room.