The words from your mouth
like snarls in firewood but
you are all flash and no
I should be writing poetry.
I should be writing about the wandering that I did at 1am through campus in the rain-thick half-cold dark, searching for a place to sing.
I should be channeling my stress and worries into verse, rambling about my fear of failure and of failing, literally; of setting myself up to fall.
I should be writing about the afternoon I spent on a rooftop staring at a cloudless sky, watching a jet plane’s trail like a wake in the water and feeling that at any moment I could drown.
I should be waxing poetic about the date I had with a pretty girl, where we shared a pair of gloves, bare hands clasped together, pretending not to feel the cold.
I should be writing about the way my new haircut makes me feel, handsome and boyish and charming.
I should be writing about
I am just
There is something to be said for the changeling child
born of two worlds, bound to neither;
there is a freedom in the power
to walk the line between.
Those with feet firmly rooted
look on with misguided pity;
poor dear, poor lost thing,
no home and no place.
But they will never know the wonder
of standing on a high wire,
the edge between worlds,
and seeing both things at once.
(You were my caesura-
the pause, the frozen time, the empty silence
the sword between the ribs.)
I would like to apologize in advance for cross-posts that result because of the tumblr app. I try to keep the fandom quarantined.
I am so
into knots over
You told me once
inhaling on a spring morning
that you thought magic smelled like lavender.
I think that you are wrong.
Magic must smell like
dark wet grave dirt
and sweetly rotting apples
and the dead-branches sacrifice of fall.
She wears five thousand faces and none of them hers,
steals five thousand voices and none of them in tune.
She walks like a model and a vagrant and a face in the crowd.
"I’ve never done this before," she says,
He wears his heart on his sleeve
and his thoughts on his face.
He stands straight, shoulders open, neck bared.
"You’re beautiful," he says,
too earnest by far.
She says she was born in Moscow, Madagascar, Ireland, San Diego;
she grew up here and she’s just visiting and she’s never been here before.
She meets your eyes just long enough,
cool as you please.
He stumbles and stutters over his words,
and his smile is as clear as a child’s.
He tells you the things
no one else will say.
"I love you," she says,
and hears her heart stutter.
"I know that you do,"
I opened my mouth and I swallowed them down,
all the sweet things you called me;
let them sit in my stomach for days,
But I am stronger now, and longer,
and I shed your names like skins.
When I was young,
I used to write all over my body-
things I liked,
like long fancy words and
brilliant turns of phrase
and poetry that sang,
penned on my arms and legs.
When the letters faded I’d smile,
knowing they’d been absorbed into my bloodstream.
I’d imagine I could feel
my heart pumping prose
and Shakespeare’s sonnets wrapped around my bones
and John Donne in the soles of my feet
and meter rushing in my ears.
"I will be a writer," I’d say,
"I must be a writer,
writing is what I am.”
And now I am a writer,
will be a writer,
have been a writer,
but I still wonder-
was it the scribbling made me so,
or the ink poisoning?