Love Me, Leave Me

Please.

Love me lupine;
leave me howling at the moon,
chin up, eyes closed to the stars
that crowd the night sky.

Continue reading “Love Me, Leave Me”

Static

Stuck

We are

Unchanging
Immobile
Not dynamic
Fixed
Deadlocked
Not progressing
Unmoving
Stagnant
Stationary
Still
Stuck.

I raise my voice on the phone
To tell you,

And you say to me,
“I can’t hear you
Over the static.”




Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

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I’m So, So Sorry

My biggest flaw

I remember lying on Your bed, waiting for
You to come home from that walk that
You took because You needed
a break from my frustrating
inability to tell you what
I was feeling.

I did my best to muster up the courage to
say what had always been behind
my lips.

When You entered the room, I just
C R A C K E D.

Tears turned to rivers, rivers turned to oceans,
oceans threatened to drown me.
Because, even then, letting
it all spill out was not
cathartic.

My feelings were a porcupine quill, buried deep
under my skin. I tried to pull out the quill,
slowly, painfully. I made progress, but
I couldn’t get the quill out. I left a
third of it still down inside of
me, and now my skin was
inflamed and bloody
from the whole
ordeal.

I wanted to scream, but I didn’t. I wanted to
stop crying, but I didn’t. I wanted to
write these words out on Your
wall, but I didn’t.

Don’t You know that my thoughts are poems? That
they flow from me best with a pen and paper
or from a keyboard
or as a mural?

But of course You don’t because I’ve never opened
my mouth to say those words
to You.

I still keep my feelings underneath the surface. I’ve
always thought that it was just who I was. Until
You, I didn’t recognize that it is a flaw,
something that I need to let go of
in order to show trust and
vulnerability.

A relationship is a constant give and take, and I
need to give more of myself over for fairness’
sake and for my sake and more
importantly, for
Your sake.

I do promise that I’ll try harder next time,
but I know that it won’t be with You.






Photo by Adrianna Calvo from Pexels

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You Are

YOU are

you are an answer

you are a solid foundation
you are the turbulent sea, threatening to pull me under
you are a delicate butterfly wing
you are the ax used to chop down the sturdiest oak
you are a humble disciple
you are the queen of the land
you are a tear streaming down my cheek
you are the laugh bubbling from a baby’s lips
you are a strong, rhythmic pulse of a heartbeat
you are the silent stillness of a pine forest
you are an authority
you are the rule breaker
you are an empty, abandoned house
you are the chalice overflowing with wine

you are the question

you are





Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger

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A Little Love

Love for all

I want to take a Polaroid of every mole and freckle on my body,
the one on my nose and the ones just above each kneecap
and all the rest,
and lay them out on the carpet
to create a constellation
with a beige, shaggy carpet sky as a background,
just to admire the potential for beauty in my “flaws”
because every square inch of me is gorgeous
and I deserve to appreciate that.

I want to buy a picnic basket
and load it up with sandwiches and grapes
and a whole lot of other stereotypical stuff
but still leave room to pack all the snacks you like,
even though they might not go with the aesthetic
because the look of delight on your face
when you see those Oreos
is my aesthetic
and because you deserve to feel special.

I want to write love notes for strangers,
to leave them little reminders
that they are appreciated,
anonymous love notes hastily scrawled on pale yellow post it notes
and left to be found in the least obvious of places,
like under cafe tables and inside of porcelain vases at Target,
because those strangers are loved
by me and by the universe,
even if they don’t recognize it themselves.

Photo by Linda Eller-Shein from Pexels

Her Aching Thoughts

What do you know about flowers?

“Do you think that flowers know that they’re beautiful?” she asks, in the middle of folding laundry. The bleached white towels stand in contrast to the navy blue comforter on the bed. Her folds are crisp, even, perfect. Her eyes flick up from her work, meet mine, and hold there.

I stand stark still, like prey hoping that its predator will move on. Her eyes continue to pierce into my soul. She will not move on.

“Do you think roses know that they symbolize love or that daisies know that we count their petals to steel ourselves from potential heartbreak?”

The words cling to the air, then expand, filling the whole room with their stifling presence. There’s a moment’s pause as we stand there, eyes locked, surrounding by the agony of her inquiries.

Then she breaks her gaze, looks back down at the towels, and starts to fold once more. “Do you think that when flowers are cut from their plants they know that some of them will end up on top of graves, showing the dead that humans still care?”

“I don’t think so,” I mumble in reply, grabbing a nearby towel and starting to fold, albeit much less expertly than her. “I don’t think so.”

Photo by Tim Gouw from Pexels

Hold Me

Please

Hold me
tighter than you’ve ever held anyone,
so hard that your arms fall asleep.
When that happens, wrap me tighter still.

Hold me
like our lives depend on it,
like our love depends on it,
like you’re going to miss me if I walk away.

Hold me
as though you’re afraid to lose me.
Hold me
like you mean it.

Please,
please
just
hold me.

Photo by Anna Kester from Pexels

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The Heart is a Muscle

painting lovers as circles
and their worries as squares

The following poem is unfinished. I tend to take a long time to write any given poem, but this one has been an ongoing project for about 8 months, which is about half the lifetime of this blog. At this point, continuing to make tiny changes without the satisfaction of feeling like it is fully finished is getting ridiculous. I need to get it out there, either to get some feedback on it or to have it stop rattling around in my brain. One day, I will return to the piece and finish it, but now is simply not the time. Nevertheless, I hope that you enjoy reading a draft of “The Heart is a Muscle.”


The heart is a muscle,
and the nerves are electric.
Through this ongoing bustle,
the world skews geometric,

painting lovers as circles
and their worries as squares,
giving curves to their pulses
and angles to their cares.



They will start just as always
with both passion and thrill
with vibrant hues that amaze
as the moments hold still.

With a touch of their fingers
or the brush of their hands,
the sensation will linger
like a divine command,

but cloud nine’s not forever.
No, all love must evolve,
for life is too clever
with its problems to solve.

Their lives will become busy,
but still they will try
to ride out that tizzy,
let their love edify,

and hope to get through this–
as we’ll cheer for them, too–
all wishing for pure bliss
when they’re circles anew.



Now, this lovers’ tribute
must come to an end,
though their story continues
past the upcoming fin.

We sadly cannot wait here;
our own lives need attending.
We must address our own fears;
we have souls that need mending.

But we’ll all repeat this puzzle
and its painting in metric
’cause the heart is a muscle,
and the nerves are electric.

Photo by Oleg Magni from Pexels


As I said at the top of this post, this poem is still a draft. There are parts of the middle that I don’t think flow very well. It also needs to be much longer for the ending to make sense. Despite all of my work on it, I have not been able to get it to a point where it felt like I was done with it.

This brings me to a question: How do you feel about me posting drafts on here? In fact, how do you feel about me posting content that is not poetry at all?

I would like to be able to post content more consistently, but lately I’ve been feeling held back by the niche that I have created for myself. Poetry is a slow process for me. I can’t put one up every day (not even a short one) and be happy with its quality. If I were to also post ideas, discoveries, and stories from my life, would you want to read them? Or are you okay with my current slow and inconsistent schedule because it means that I can devote the blog solely to poetry?

I have written and rewritten a blog post all about my experience with posting a poem to the internet every day during NaPoWriMo, but I have been unsure whether people would actually want to read that, or would rather I just get right back into posting more poems.

Regardless of your answer, I very much appreciate the time you have taken to read this blog. I hope you’re having a wonderful day!

Peace out!

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And You Know That I’d Be Wearing a Dress

Through thick and thin

We could walk along the shore,
feel the sand squish between our toes
as the waves lap at our ankles,
gazing out at the mid blue waters
and the light blue sky,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

We could traipse amongst the flowers,
leaning down to sniff the sweet aroma
of the roses and the lilies
as we follow the grassy path
through the garden,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

You could chase me through the corridors of a castle,
dodging the cool, stony walls
and laughing vibrantly the whole time.
You could catch me in your strong arms
and pull me into you,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

You could stand at the end of the aisle
surrounded by loved ones
as organ music swells and the doors swing open.
I could take one step into the chapel,
and tears could start to well up in your eyes,
and you know that I’d be wearing a dress.

Photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels


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What is Love?

Baby, don’t hurt me.

On the edge of a cliff
I stand,
head bowed,
hands clasping
the wrought iron form
of my heart,
not wanting to drop it
but needing to let it fall.

I don’t look
down below.
I don’t dare
try to ascertain
who might catch it
or whether
there is anyone
to catch it at all.

I simply loosen my grasp
and allow it to tumble
from fumbling fingertips
into the unknown.

Photo by Anna Urlapova from Pexels

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