Tag: saturday

blankets on the beach

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the same blood that keeps me warm rushes to my face/ yet i’m cold while flushed and my balance is off/ i tip and i turn and i tumble to the floor/ the blood in my veins cuts me off to a cough

here you are and there she is/ your jacket, my arm, a blanket on the beach/ we’re so intertwined and i’m knotted all over/ a silent moment where i’m forced to speak

no rush of anger, yet swift and steady upset arises/ i trip over the imaginary lines we all drew/ the nerves in my body stand on end/ axed to stubs, were my words misconstrued?

tortured love

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the feminine touch is soft as a feather/ with an undercurrent of controlled power/ they’re swift yet always gentle/ velvety as a petal on a flower

men are the rushing of streams/ they’re a gust of wind that rushes your hair/ delicate features of a sturdy figure/ sharp minds beneath their stares

a woman on my left and a man on my right/ the whisper of a touch trails my skin/ a rough callus creates a sweet friction/ electricity through my blood and everywhere within

i beg for mercy but never a swift death/ play it out slow like torture/ make me writhe against the wall and under the sheets/ sweet relief flows through me like water

a woman on my left and a man on my right/ the lick of an ear and a taste of the neck/ who is who, it’s all just skin/ as long as they promise to leave me a wreck

to stay in or out

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being queer has never been a choice of mine/ a friend in high school once weaponized that against me/ she was the first friend i ever came out to/ i stopped telling people until it all became a dream

there’s a girl in college i wouldn’t call a friend/ she told me i needed to be intimate with a girl/ i needed to be intimate with a girl to be considered queer/ it’s too bad that all of my friends agreed with her words

i’ve grown up with people who swear their support/ i’ve grown up with people who swear they are proud/ i’ve grown and i’ve grown and i still don’t feel as tall as them/ i grow more small and they grow more loud

i wish people would stop pressuring me to choose a side/ i’m not enough for anyone and i’m too much for me/ i’m stuck being only half of what they want/ i hate the way being out makes me seen

my old coffee shop

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When is your last day as a regular/ the last day you enter the coffee shop you adore/ the last day someone already knows your order/ the last day to slide into the familiar booth near the door

i’ve realized that my day has passed/ i miss the place like i miss my old room/ i’m stuck with watery espresso from some chain/ reminiscing the long, hot better days of june

my last day as a regular was mid-august/ i can still recall my rolled up cream jacket/ i can still recall my same caramel order/ i can still recall when driving there was an old habit

the simple things you miss when you move away/ they hit you hard even once you settle in/ for me, it was my old coffee shop/ the colors and scents i can still imagine

the romantization of holding hands

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Looking at the street ahead/ i see the life of flashing lights/ the taillights of incomprehension/ of how much i need these nights

my lifeline sits to the left/ one hand on the wheel/ the other intertwined with mine/ whose heart will he steal?

i firmly believe in soulmates/ and that we are/ i firmly believe in elation/ brought to us by our stars

the romanization of holding hands/ seems uncomparable to all of earth/ as do all the limits set/ for the speed we take each curve

writing is thinking

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the feeling of being happy is./ music is my process of thinking/ lectures are a tool for daydreams/ drowning is not the same as sinking

i love the concept of reading a book/ a story unlike my own is entirely mine/ anybody can read the same story/ but it’s only the characters and you in those lines

i read and i write and only read and write/ the perspectives that leave me enthralled/ the dynamics keep me up for hours/ the ideas the authors have installed

the ideas that create my own story/ i type and i write and i scribble them down/ i’ve made stories and letters and poems and essays/ meaning more than just their verbs and nouns

i’m no better than a painter with crayola/ my works are no worse than those of the greats/ i take on my work with a humbled ego/ the contradictory is a content weight

web of dreams

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we were in tenth grade sitting together at lunch/ we were in eleventh grade skyping until morning/ we were in twelfth grade tossing up our caps together/ now i wake up each day to you snoring

we grew up and we grew old but we grew together/ we both go off to ours jobs before the sun/ we drive across the world your hand on the wheel/ my hand on your leg as the music drums

we toss and we turn and we wind down our path/ ours are intertwined as we weave/ my yarn loops through yours but it never knots/ in and out, together we knit our dreams

The Lifespan of a Book

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I said I was done burning your things/ But that was until I found a book/ The orange and pink cover is yours/ I’ve just given it a blackened new look

I really hope you don’t mind/ You can have it back if you want/ It was left behind in my room/ Staring at me as if to taunt

There were some minor annotations/ In chapters I’d rather not discuss/ I can send you the address/ Before I turn the rest of it to dust