Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?
I want to be the girl you think about
in the bar at one in the morning,
head in your hands, glass drained
dry, thinking about how damn good
it once was to remember how it
felt to kiss me.
I take back what you have stolen,
and in your languages I announce
I am now nameless.
My true name is a growl.
Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.
When the Princess Becomes a Prophet by Jeannine Hall Gailey
I dream’d this mortal part of mine
Was Metamorphos’d to a Vine;
Which crawling one and every way,
Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.
Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my Tendrils did surprise;
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waist
By my soft Nerv’lits were embrac’d:
About her head I writhing hung,
And with rich clusters (hid among
The leaves) her temples I behung:
So that my Lucia seem’d to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl,
And arms and hands they did enthrall:
So that she could not freely stir,
(All parts there made one prisoner.)
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
That with the fancy I awoke;
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a Stock than like a Vine.__
The Vine, Robert Herrick, (1591-1674)
A man with OCD recites a poem about his one true love. It’s heartbreaking.
To everyone who ever said “I have OCD” just because they’re organized, tidy, super clean, meticulous…this is what OCD looks like.
How about we stop using that term so lightly.
writing is safer, somehow
because my pen cannot stutter like my lips do,
and words get stuck in throats,
not fingertips, can’t stumble
on paper trails of blue lines
because writing is definite and clear
and no one can tell if i am crying
or laughing
through written words alone
SEAREIGNS 