In The Years I Unlearned You
I learned to live deeply within myself
It’s sometimes a wonder other people see me here at all
I even surprise myself when I speak
as if the entire universe looking back at me is enough to make me realize
I am here
Though I cannot always feel it
Though I cannot always feel my feet
those which do not hit the ground
Though I cannot always feel my lungs
those which do not gasp for air
Though there are times where all that I can see is dark
It’s sometimes a wonder bees like to linger around my dead corpse-
There is nothing sweet about the body of a girl who spends months
crawling back into herself after she spent months teaching
herself how to crawl out
I learned a lot about other people by staying quiet
by being part-time human, part-time ghost
by assuming my position as obedient dog
come here, sit, let me carve you open until everything inside of you
spills out unto my floor
and then let me punish you for it
I learned a lot about what it means to be silenced
but even the earth shakes itself when nobody is listening to it
and they say that storms happen due to instability in the air
but it was yours that had caused mine
Did you think I would stay here?
In this house
with no doors?
Did you think I would be your prisoner forever?
I Promised You A Poem
There is nothing graceful about the way I grieve or write things.
In fact, I counted six empty beer bottles on my night stand this morning
and woke up as a train track, and I haven’t figured out how to turn
that into poetry.
But you wanted to make damn sure you’d be remembered,
You wanted the words
the spilled blood
mess on the bathroom floor
bones in a graveyard
all to mourn the death of you.
But you see,
my body is not an old tomb
I do not need to hold onto your ashes just because you touched me
I have learned how to shed my skin so that your fingerprints
do not transform into scars.
And you forgot this part
And you thought of me as only darkness
And you thought of me as only air and water
And you thought of me as only an ocean of sad
And you thought it would be easy
so you turned your hands into razor blades
and held me by my limbs at night
pretending you could save me
by cutting me open.
I told you I would write you something
Here it is.
Is This Vague Enough?
My writing is too
raw, he said, too honest.
It is true that I must
for everything that I lack to say
when I am around you;
a falling blade
that lands upright
and never cuts.
This is me
hoping it will land
on your doorstep.
This is me
hoping it will serve
as a metaphor
for all the things
I never said.
This is me
“I hope you know
how close I came to
but I survived.