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Tag Archives: poetry

The Fight

Sometimes when we fold ourselves at night, we pretend to be tiny origami cranes. Delicate, unfeeling, simple.

Sometimes when the dark finally sets in and shadows come to play, we pretend they’re our drunk dreams warding off the bad ones.

Sometimes when our eyes have to be pried open in the dimly lit room and the ache sits so deep in the morning air, we pretend it’s Christmas morning just to get out of bed. We’ve got a life to live, let that be our gift.

There are days our heads feel so heavy and our chests feel like caskets. There are days our skin feels ragged and our muscles feel sore. There are days feeling our heartbeats is the scariest thing in the world and each breath feels like razors scrapping on our every soft surface.

But our legs still carry us and our necks still hold our heads. We manage to survive another damn day because that’s what we do: we survive.

When I look around to see all of the survivors, the warriors, the ones who made it, I see lights that refused to dim. I see hearts that didn’t get the best of us and I see bravery in the exhaustion.

And I say congratulations.

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when you have a cold, your nose runs

Who is there
when the lights go out
and the cold knocks on your window
to hold you?

Who lets you know
you’re safe when your own lungs
are afraid to open
for fear of letting in a draft?

Who is there when they are so busy
and your life is so stagnant
and you don’t know how to say:
“Something’s wrong”?

Who can pry open your mouth
when you have tied it with
black lace so pretty, so hurtful
and it looks like you’re smiling?

Who can reach down with their hands
to help you from the grave you’re digging
when all you manage to do
is flinch at the thought?


War Paint

Sometimes, I want to paint my face pretty.

Dye my hair a different color – any other color, something not my own.

The mirror shines my face back at me and I notice everything that needs to be fixed. I notice the color of my skin, the scars, the lines and wrinkles, the bone structure, my nose. I think about what would make it better, prettier. I think about how I’m not better, prettier.

I daydream about makeup and pretty skin. I fantasize about being what I’m not.

I have to build myself up every time I don’t pick up the brush, or apply foundation. I have to forget my face every time I step outside.

Most of the time, I want to be pretty.


Tainted Love

You can leave me in the cold and like a loyal dog, I’ll stay. The dark can creep up on me and shroud me in its claws, but I’ll picture you and feel at home.

They shake their heads at me like I should know better, and I should.

But my heart beats for you and I can’t change the source of heat in my blood. So I’ll make friends with the shadows and tell them your name.

When you come back (and you will come back) don’t be afraid of the devils on my shoulders. Don’t be afraid of the cold in my skin or the damage in my eyes.

Your name will be forever on my lips and I have signed over my soul for you. The ink left bruises on my heart, is this love?

I will call it love as long as there is air in my lungs, even if it leaves me with smoke between my lips. I can learn to love the taste of toxins – just as I have learned to love the bruises on my heart. Just as I have learned to love you.


Amidst the Wreckage

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We drag our feet through the dirt
dust in the air,
in our lungs

We call this the wreckage
of our pasts,
of our hearts

I see you through the daze
in the dark,
through the hurt

Our hands meet in the middle
and we can finally rest,
breathe out the exhaustion

You can have my red thread
if I can have yours,
and all I ask of you

is be the one to stay
please,
just stay


Fake it ’til you make it.

We break and
We fold and
We change
Everything we ever were
For the chance to
Be believed in, to
Be found, to
Be loved
And it hurts
But we smile and
We laugh and
We say,
“I’m okay,”
Because the truth hurts and
Fake it ‘til you make it,
But all I want to know is:
Will I ever make it?


The Bridge

I’ve built a bridge between
two worlds that fit
two sides of me

It creaks with weight and
looks like neither side (of course)
and it does only
what it’s meant to

On one side you see a burning building
and it’s so beautiful you can’t help
but look at it from a distance
yet still want to touch it

You think it’s burning the
rough edges and what will be left
is a pure diamond that will congratulate you
for staying and not touching

But it only burns,
new kindling added from the same
broken down houses

The other side has soft edges,
and a pink tint, like looking through
rose-colored glasses
or an old photograph

Something about it makes you feel
right at home, and even the dark
is only for sleep
and not for nightmares

I sit on the bridge to guide
those who find me
but I’m stuck in the middle;
a blockade from one side
and the next