Aim to Find You

10/15/12

This is not good for my heart.
I am watching,
openly, out of the corner
of my eye when I least
expect it, scanning
my surroundings,
my memories overlapping
unconsciously with the present.
I am trying to find you
even when I know that
you are not here.
I aim to find you,
no matter how small the resemblance,
the hoodie of the man walking past me,
the flash of blond hair
from across the room,
each moment building until
it all comes crashing down
with the realization of
this strange emptiness
of when you are not near me.
And I am afraid
to tell you this.

Search for You

I will search for you,
my fingers clawing gently
on the underside of my ribs
as I attempt to open my body,
slice clean along the side of my lungs,
bite down till I bruise
the pink of my lips a deep purple,
staining my heart outward
with each beat and breath of my body,
measuring each second of my existence
as something alive.
I need you with me, on me,
carved deep along the marrow
in my bones, the beat
of a dull heart cupped
within my hands, blood spattered
up the length of my arms,
your name forever engraved across my body.
But this is fine,
even when nobody can see you,
as I become unravelled
at the seams, fingers digging,
nails clawing to open
the soft container of your body,
as if by this form of love
I could meld you to me.
As if I could ever find the will
to let you go.

On Writing

I want you to read this. On the basis that I feel it is important, that I have a voice that has value in being heard. Because I am tired of walking into bookstores and seeing poetry chapbooks being priced at $20 and above.

This is how I am bringing my voice to the table. This is the only way I know how to exist, where the words carve out each line and membrane of my body. Where I am kissed senseless and molded between the lines of each page of my life. And I don't know how to accurately price that.

I am writing. For me, for the basis of freedom of speech and expression. I am writing because for the longest time I felt that nobody would listen.

I know better now.

Nothing as Stupid as a Love Poem

09/15/12
-for my version of the scientist

This is a fantasy.

Kiss me, teeth scraping
along the curve of my lips,
blood beating deep
within my ears, flush
staining out across my cheeks
as I fist my fingers through
your hair
and pull you to me.
Grind me, hips locked together,
limbs sprawled out across the bed,
breath heaving as I claw my body open
in an attempt to reach you.
Taste me, tongue kissed behind my ear,
the sweat of your skin imprinted
along the fabric on my shirt,
chest heaving,
heart strangled as I slowly allow
you to start stripping me bare.

I need you to fill me, break
me down, bones locked to
the mattress,
heart slowing from your weight
stretched along me.

This is a fantasy.
Because when I wake,
you're no where closer to being
in my arms.

Begging You

09/20/12

I am begging you
to kiss me. I can imagine
the trace of your fingers down
the side of my jaw, gently hooking
under my chin and the soft tug
as you tilt my head upwards
to meet your eyes.

I will take you in, the embellishments
of my memories of you, the curve
of your smile, the short length
of your hair as I raise
my hands to thread my fingers
through it and pull
you down towards me.

I am still fantasizing
as I raise my legs to lock
them around your hips, trace my fingers
up the length of your spine,
your body heavy, stretched
along the length of my centre,
the beat of your heart aching
through your skin onto mine.

I am willing you to break
me, strip my body open
piece by piece, clothes discarded
on the floor, the heat
of your breath in my ear,
the bite of your teeth on my neck
as I am falling,
falling headfirst into confusion
with you.

The Suicide Garden Part VIII: Blood

She lay in the snow, whistling. She gave that up soon, though.
She knew she would die before he found her. It was just a little thought she had. Her supply of cigarettes was gone now, and she had nothing to keep her going.
She thought of the poppies she’d collected every time and placed in miniature lakes, swimming across the apartment on the waves caused by her movements. They were such a beautiful red, almost like a smile, curving in the grimace of an unshared secret.
Poppies on the water, beaching themselves behind the hidden screen of the floating world, tangled in the images of the jungle growing along the apartment.
I wonder who’s going to water the plants now.

The Suicide Garden Part VII: Fire

One second and it was over, careening into the snow banks on the 97 Northbound.
She didn’t know what it was. Maybe the age of the truck. Maybe the damage she’d done to the engine as she sped away on the asphalt.
She had a feeling it was him, though.