I think I have written this poem before

But maybe it was just phantom fingers that tapped this out last round

All I know is this is not the first time

That she has broken in my hands

Falling through ground so solid under my size sixs

Too heavy a heart to last in the clouds

I heard once she was like gold

Precious and shinning and important

But oh so easy to shove

And he shoves her

Shoves her straight to my door with her lips and her heart all closed up again

How can you make someone hate themselves so much?

Is that really all love does?

Change?

Because now she says she knows she’s too clumsy

Like it could ever be her fault that tree roots pop under her feet

She says she will be strong

Well I will tell you right now strong is nothing if not the muscles that pump blood too fast

And push tears down your face

And grip the door as everyone walks away

Feeling is strong

But one word from her heretic god and everything beautiful about her

Is a flaw in design

Here’s the problem
I think I may have figured it out this time
I saw you giving yourself to me
Every broken bone and tattered section of your heart
Placing them in my tiny hands
And I had no clue what to do with it
With you
I was content to keep myself to me, having devised a clever pulley system to keep my self intact
All the gears and ropes perfectly weighted
So I could not return the gift
But I also wasn’t sure I wanted all the responsilbity of you
All the responsibility of holding someone up
Not again
But here we are not giving ourselves to each other
Keeping our hands separate
And I would take your breaks and bruises so gently
I would wrap your fractures in my own ripped clothes
I could take care of you if you needed
I saw you giving yourself to me
And this time I would take you

There is no silence
The whole world buzzes
The whole world rings
Every atom pushing up against another moving to keep you solid
Can’t you hear it
My lungs expanding and my valves pumping blood
I have heard it is rhythmic
But it sounds like a crowd roaring to me
Every creaking bone and clicking clock
Out of step with the other 7 billion clicks in the world
Can’t you hear it in the white noise
Even when you’re breathing
Even when you aren’t
I hear ringing

There is no song for us

In memories he will play our soundtrack on calloused fingers

Because despite my best efforts we are nothing pop culture

We are no faded reference or old pair of jeans

The day and the season and the city don’t matter

When we are so self contained, lost in our bubble of reality

Constructed from blankets and car doors

I’ve always put boys into categories

Like the TV shows and bands that keep me warm at night

What else are boys for

Everyone fading into that one perfect scrapbook moment

You don’t have to remember anything real if you use enough Photoshop

You said put down the camera

Because everything doesn’t need to be labeled or remembered

Everything doesn’t need to be boxed up

For remembering later

He will still be my golden years

I can hear my speeches, the echo of our great love

But it will not be memorable what was in

What was out

What was playing in the background

Because he is our soundtrack

Strumming timelessly

It is new to me to not put my life in your hands
To know you are not my savior in everything
Protecting me with pencil swords and monologue epiphanies
It is new to keep you separate
In the drawer below
Your colors they mix with my life
But they do not bleed over
It is new and my eyes are adjusting to its beauty
To have you holding my hand
Not leading or pushing or deciding my landscape
Just walking with me

And when the night terrors come
They don’t pound the floor like heavy footfalls
Or scratch the walls like monster claws
No shadow falls over you no chill wafts in
Instead the terrors come in quietly like memories and honesty
No barricade can hold them from sliding under your door
Moving into your head to light the dull fires of insecurity
And the night terrors come, not to shake you
But to keep you still

There are sounds that mean the same thing to almost everyone; the tinkling of bells, the patter of rain, the pounding of piano keys. Excluding the odd hurricane survivor or tortured musical genius, these noises do something for us all. The universal happiness that comes with the chirping of spring birds makes it easy to identify these very birds, that very feeling, that simple emotion. But the slamming of doors isn’t one sound, it is an orchestra.

To her it means a childhood full of yelling. She hears the door shut fast and hard and is taken back to her hiding place in the corner of her room. Rocking back and forth trying not to listen, but hearing the stomping of boots down the front walk anyways. Through her ears covered by small fingers she hears cabinets and closets shutting with a crack, and knows those are artifacts being collected and taken away. A product of divorce, the slamming of doors to her will always mean rage and leaving; in too much of a hurry to leave to bother with closing the frame nicely behind you.

To him it means familiarity. It’s like knowing someone, along with leaving dirty clothes on the floor and drinking orange juice straight from the carton slamming the door means you don’t need to be polite anymore. And that’s scary, because for him all that being familiar takes too much time, takes too much effort, takes too much of his heart. Forgetting social graces comes with a commitment he cannot give, or maybe just doesn’t want. She slams the door and he cringes at how sure she is that he will never leave her.

To her it means a place to call her own. After years of sneaking and running and sliding the door closed softly behind her, suddenly it is okay to stomp and push and yell. The liberty people with hidden relationships feel when their lips first touch in public, and they can suddenly walk hand in hand through crowded room; this is like her door slamming. She wants to slam the door as she leaves too late or too early or in the middle of the day, because it is complete and udder freedom. Every bang is her public declaration, I am here, I am here, I am here.

Doors slam against their frames in the wind, in fights, in love, in desperation. Frames become cracked and doors become dulled and people become creatures of habit. Every time she closes the door quietly leaving for work, every time he tries to reach out and grab the swinging door to stop the sound, every time she smashes the door behind her before a night out; it is just a door shutting. There just happens to be someone there to hear it. 

It doesn’t come when I pass the fallen log where we dueled with heavy splinters
Or the strips of concrete where we took our aimless walks
It doesn’t come when I sit on the bench where in the middle of chaos we exchanged true or false I love you’s
No these memories float around like every boy I’m long over
Too trivial to be locked up in a box that won’t let pain out
But I passed by the place where we almost kissed
And suddenly all my new polyester and jean rubs uncomfortably
Urged to whip under my eyes and at my sticky lips
Painting the back of my hand black and red
I pull at my short curls, for the first time doubting my metamorphosis
The qualities I’ve gained
So adult
So proud
So calm
Suddenly I would rather be loud and childish in your arms
The pain comes as I stare up the steep incline, feeling the rain on my face once again
I rub uncomfortably against my new skin now
Because I found the moment when it comes
When I miss you

perilsofapalindromelife:

Flawed Friends With Benefits

There was a very real verbal contract of no emotions

Making shallow cuts we swore across the organs that have no connotations

That ours would be five weeks of physical

And then we would spend our 100 years improved by medical science on opposite coasts

So with promises made we settled into a routine of smashing against each other

Bruising and bashing

And then sitting at opposite ends of the long dinner table

Yes at first the love stories that started like ours made us laugh

Their silly feelings, it fueled our superiority complex

High fiving at innuendos as we sat like kings on thrones

But we played these games like squires

Shying away from anything dangerous, any conversation that threatened to bring us closer

Soon our laughter ended

Soon we were hiding

Careful to skip love songs and goodnight kisses

High fives lingered, fingers slipping together tighter and tighter

Until we celebrated innuendos with shared glances

I put my hands over yours ears when they told stories that started like ours

Trying to protect us from thoughts of love

But soon, my hands slide down to your face

And now, 1,810 miles away from your coast

I stare at a box that imitates your face with pixels

Still promising with shallow laughter that we are nothing

This is my other Tumblr (What gasp you have two) where I usually blog but I also read poetry aparently

Sometimes I fall to the cold wooden floor
Tucked away in the dusty corner where old pens and paper lay neatly in 90 degree angles to the wall
Because it hits me how little life has moved
How I am the same girl that crawled into a box
And begged for scraps
And claimed his imperfections were no match for raw chemistry
I make these same excuses now
Names and settings changed I feel like I’m rereading a novel that never interested me to begin with
Tears overflow as you remind me of him
Because its just a type now playing at being relay racers
You hand me off like a baton and this year
This year of independence and beauty
Suddenly I find myself curled up on the same spot of floor
Surroundings different
Each word the same