scaramouche16

it used to be that the stillness of the night was a comfort it held me in its dark embrace caressed my skin with its shadowy fingers kissed my eyelids as they grew heavy and so when i stopped feeling that gentle touch i thought at first that i was broken here were the same shadows i had loved the same dark kisses in the hours before dawn the same silent hallow around me but it no longer felt like home no longer familiar and safe to be so alone in such silence i have grown to love more the sunshine in your laugh the blue sky behind your smile i have grown accustomed to your kisses tasting of summertime and to your hands so much stronger

the kid is six and experiences rejection firsthand when his very first best friend finds someone better and the kid doesn't know why but he saw it coming, he is six years old and reads better than the ten-year-olds and they hate him for it, shout insults at him on the playground, six years old and a head taller than everyone else he knows the kid is nine and he hangs around with kids a little older and a little scarier than him, they offer protection because they're the school bullies, they like him because he's tall and he's timid he is nine years old and every day is a battlefield when he's incapable of understanding how to be a normal kid

fuck you, my body is a temple. it comes in fistfuls, waiting to be devoured by eager, licentious worshippers. it moves when i am still, it is lush and sweet. i am a rainforest, i am a fruit tree. i am tart and rich, i belong to mouths and tongues. i am sensational. i am sinful and holy, i am an apple blossom. i am cherries, i am oranges, i am zest. my body contains me, my body is a nest, is an ocean, my body is waves and swells, my body is thunder. it rolls and crashes and collides, it defies cages and cartography, it is everlasting. fuck you, i am nature's creation.

It's early morning. I said goodnight to you some time ago, not intending to sleep. Instead, I've been lying in bed thinking about winter and distance and writing the same poem three times over in slightly different ways. (Not including now.) I like to think that I can be quite the poet if I try, or when the mood strikes. And the words are there, I know they are. It should be springtime, but yesterday there was snow in my hair and the wind bit through my coat and even now my room is too cold. Now, if I were a better poet, I would be able to make the analogy that pounds so insistently within me as clearly as my heartbeat. Comparing you to sp

I do miss you, that much is certain. But I miss you as one would miss a gangrenous arm, freshly amputated. I miss the familiar weight of you, the ache that became a constant in my life; I miss you as you were part of me. Your presence poisoned me and now your absence, though necessary, has left me unbalanced. I miss you. But I do not wish you back.

I sit down to write but my words fall away every rich metaphor meta-forming to "stay" -- it's just all I can say, every hour, every day, but I guess that's okay. And it's you and it's me but I can't find the words when they used to come out simple as major thirds. Yes, I'm struggling here. It's the best I can do 'cause it's you and it's me and it's me and it's you. So I'm not good at rhythm, even worse with rhyme, my attempts are pedestrian can't even keep time-- but the beat of these lines should be good for a start since I matched every stress to the beat of my heart. No I don't have a point I should quit while ahead

When you wake up, everything hurts. A persistent cough that steals the breath from your lungs, a pounding ache in your brain, and something more, something deeper. You reach out, wanting, and nothing reaches back. Go back to bed, and maybe tomorrow it will be different. It will never be different, but you say these things to yourself for the same reasons you send get well cards to cancer patients.