I love your eyes.
I could write songs and rhyming poems,
and whole books or theses
on your eyes
and the beauty or depths
they contain.
There are many shades of
brown,
from dirt to chocolate,
dog shit to coffee,
carob to bourbon,
but none of these
come anywhere close to describing
the shade of your stupid eyes,
in their beauty (or ugliness).
The way they enrapture me
and distract me from my work
or pull my attention away from
my television shows
or baking
has always been loathsome and annoying,
but your eyes are still
my favourite shade of brown
for all the depths they contain
that I wish to traverse,
to explore,
to discover,
and to understand
"You always smile like you're about to cry."
I remember when you told me that.
We were lying together, and it was nearly dark,
and I could see the smoke
curling up away from your face,
which was lit by a cigarette.
I suppose after you left, I needed to get rid of
traces that reminded me of you.
The scent of your perfume was easy,
as simple as doing the laundry.
But your cigarettes lingered
so now I burn incense
day in and day out while I write,
and smoke my cigarettes,
and drink more coffee than I should.
And I can't help but think
that ashes are all that is ever left of my relationships.
My thoughts have always been scattered
like ash in the warm summer breeze
that one morning after.
The magic of that night;
cannot find words to contain it -
could never find the melodies played -
could never reclaim that feeling.
For only sixteen,
we surely captured something fantastic;
Even today I think back to her -
her skin warm against mine in the cold evening
while huddling next to a bonfire
and eating ice cream...
I think of everything from that night
over and again
and never come any closer to solving the enigma of it.
She was like a cigarette,
addictive and dangerous
and I never quite managed another fix.
Roses and the Boys that Bring Them by Stella-g1rL, literature
Literature
Roses and the Boys that Bring Them
i.
You always brought me roses
as if that made things better.
Their petals bruised as easily as my skin,
and you noticed their bruising more.
ii.
I told you, once, the reason why
I love roses too much.
You smiled and kissed my hand
then forehead
and, still smiling, said
"That's so sweet, love."
iii.
My dad cultivated roses when I was a child
and when my brother bought the house,
the roses stayed,
all but one bush. Which
just happened
to be the bush that produced my favorite roses.
iv.
You cut me roses fresh from that park,
and I remember smiling,
and kissing you.
I didn't realize you took this as an invitation,
nor did I realize
some people s
My sadness is so crippling
some days,
I just want to get rid of it.
I think of what it would be like,
to be the me I am now,
without the sadness to have guided my way
and the anxiety to steer my course.
But then comes the thought
that keeps me awake at night.
That my sadness, this curse,
while not pleasant,
is what makes me interesting.
And suddenly I don't want to get rid of it.
After all,
without my sadness,
I'd just be so boring...
"Be who you are
and say what you feel
because those who mind
don't matter
and those who matter
don't mind."
Somehow those words
though meant to comfort
could never quite meet that purpose.
I always figured I was too sensitive.
Categorized it as my own fault
that people could hurt my feelings,
because
"no one can make you feel
inferior
without your consent."
I never could have imagined the reason
that words hurt me so much
was chemical,
in the makeup of my brain
and had nothing to do
with the quality of my character.
Even today
I find myself
convinced that first and foremost
these things are my own fault
because of the large quantity of words