Ke$ha exorcising a ghost of her vagina.
I'm nothing special, but that's okay, it's fun to pretend otherwise! I feel at home in theatre mezzanines and bunk beds. I make messes and clean them up and I like my cats a lot. There's not much I don't like. I scream because I'm excited and write poetry because I'm scared.
No. It’s like if Darren Criss goes to Wayfinder all over again.
note to self
sigh into the mouths of strangers
until the fumes turn so harsh they make parents force their kids to walk faster
take the dirty looks you get from them and store them
between your ribs, the only protection you were lucky enough to be born with
so learn to toughen them up
before the soft things
tear them apart
never be left with nothing between you and the universe
because that is when the demons are unearthed and come out to play with your insides
your mouth is a sword
your body is a suit of armor
learn to use them
fuck someone into the bed frame so hard that it turns your happiness into cigarettes
rotting away your lungs, making it harder and harder to breathe
and then watch it turn back again
listen to cicadas in the summertime
you will miss them when they turn back into mothballs that sleep in your skull and coat your synapses with snow
go to parties and meet people you have no intention of befriending
the people you don’t like teach you more about yourself than the people you do
if someone does not like you, they are a waste of your time, and should be treated as such
the things people do not like about you should be points of pride
be glad you are flawed
never stop learning
everyone is a teacher, you are a messiah
preach forever; listen endlessly
friendship is the greatest romance
never sacrifice comfort for beauty
your body is an extension of self
honor it as you would anything else
dress it and recreate it daily
do not be afraid tear up roots if you find them rotting
forge a mountain in your stomach where even the butterflies can’t reach
there are an infinite number of possible days you could have
do not ever become stuck in a cycle
learn that everything and nothing matters at once
remember that compliments mean just as much as insults
it’s all about perspective
keep track of your names and glue them to your walls but never be afraid to rip them down if you find you grow out of them
there’s always a salvation army down the road
more than willing
to take them off your hands
lie little, make realistic promises
do not stay with those who do not love you like you love them
anger is not worth keeping in your pocket
apathy looks appealing but never fits your frame right
no matter how much weight you lose
the word “should” does not exist
it from your dictionary
you are everything you can be
and do not need to be more
exalt your chosen family
but remember they live on tenuous pedestals
dig graves in your head
for those who have hurt you the most
and bury them with cement
you cannot hear their screams
love is blood
and blood is gatorade
not as vital as water or wine
but sure as hell tastes good
when you haven’t had a sip in years
if your family does not treat you
with the kindness and mercy of a stranger
you have every right to walk away
you are not entitled to their blood
and they are not entitled
nothing is forever
but write it down regardless
work with children
and the elderly
watch how similar we are and become
and how trite things seems unimportant
when the sun
be born new every day
do not live and die by your mistakes
you do not have a dictionary definition
and cannot treat yourself as if you have one
you are complex
and so is everybody else
your hero is someone’s enemy
your sister is someone’s lover
nothing is concrete
everything is evidence
thanks the moon
don’t have to wait
Windy, you should check out Leonard Nimoy’s photography! He did an exhibit at Mass MoCA that is pretty much what you described. :)
CATCH THE MOON, ONE HANDED CATCH!
In this lifetime, you have mousy brown hair, striking green eyes
and are as tall as a tower.
You are impenetrable, not by choice
but by simply not knowing the lock-and-key combo
well enough to give it away.
The next, we are acquaintances.
You change your hair color every few weeks
for a long time.
I try to determine if this means anything
for just as long.
You die too young for me to find out.
In the most striking timeline,
I see you on the underground.
I can’t tell your gender from this far away, and you’re wearing a newsboy cap.
Your hair peeks out in tufts and is dyed blonde.
I realize that I shouldn’t know that the color is fake.
I do anyway.
You get off the train before I get to say hello.
I see you once more
but we are much too different now
We grow up together here, and I can pinpoint the moment where I fall in love with you.
I’m eight years old and you’re gathering corn in the field.
My mother sent me to help you, and I find you within the rows sitting down on your jacket.
After a while I join you because it is hot and I am too young to understand that once you stop you never want to start again.
I squint into the sun and you shield my eyes with your hands.
I look up at you and think you look like one of the angels with the halos that mama talks about when she reads to me at night.
I am also too young to understand that boys cannot love each other without needing to keep it a secret.
You marry a girl from my class when you’re 23 and I pretend not to cry at your wedding.
You die at 31 from the common cold, and I cry again at your funeral.
To me, it feels just the same.
Sometimes I die before you.
I remember once you sit with me in the hospital. It’s raining out.
I’m dying slowly, cancer eating away at my lungs.
It’s hard for me to breathe, but when you smile at me, my body feels timeless.
I die in my sleep
dreaming about trying to sail away on a boat with a leak.
I look back and wonder if the cancer would have been scared away
if I told you how I felt.
I doubt it,
but you never know.
There, we get together too young.
You’re a strange, inexplicable thing and I’m too grounded and scared to understand your inherent need to run away from everything that holds you down.
I invite you to my wedding
and you don’t come.
I don’t expect you to, but as I scan the crowd, waiting for my wife to come down the aisle
I feel a little part of me sink when I realize you won’t bust down the chapel doors.
This isn’t that kind of love story.
Sometimes, you’re my brother
and I love you just as much.
This time, I don’t want to see you naked, or pass you love notes in the hallway.
I just want to wrestle you to the ground and win every time.
Love doesn’t always transfer correctly.
One of the last times we meet, it’s in a bed of a stranger, music vibrating the floorboards.
You writhe at my touch and I swear when I come I see God.
I write my name on your palm
but it washes away before you get home.
From that point on, I always feel like I’m waiting for something
that never comes.
The first time I see you
you smell like wildflowers when you pass me on the street.
I’m walking with my friends, but I just manage to turn around
and see you looking back.
My least favorite times
are the ones where we never meet
or the other doesn’t exist
and we always feel like we’re wandering around with our skin inside out
and the tag showing.
It’s in a different language
that no one can seem to read.
Every time I meet you
it’s like taking a new breath.
I am not born as a wailing infant.
I am born
the first time
you look at me