keep something for july & october
two thousand and thirteen.
don't show me all your tricks
so early in the year.
001 i am a whirlwind of
an aching heart
a regret that could
awake from my dream state.it was a leap of faith
but i wish someone had pushed me
so i had someone to blame
waste.distance is the worst thing ever
and i think
'if these people were closer, everything would
just be so much better'
but then i stop
and remember all the people in my town
who i barely see
and the thought
to the same place
he's my bottom
my rock bottom
32you were gone before it even sank in that you were really there.
habit is the worst thing, cause it made me so blind to the fact that you could
just as easily be snatched away from me.
i should have hugged you at least four more times
i've spent the better half of a year being your definition of evil and insane
at the same time. i've known better than everything i've done, but done it
anyway. god knows i've repeated the same tedious/dangerous/stupid
actions over and over wanting/expecting different results.
you wouldn't be proud of me for anything anymore.
but i'm still mad at you, i'm sure of it. if you waded through the
rising tides, or peeled away my blue like old house paint, you'd find something
that screams how you broke everything inside me. and how you were one single event
that taught me that just cause something ends, that doesn't mean its over.
and that i will waste every single change given to me.
the only thing you ever told me that i listened to, was to rest occasionally.
calamity.the poor boy got a lecture from deaths secretary
"deaths busy enough as it is without walk ins"
"but it was urgent," he stutters.
"it couldn't wait, it was now or never"
he was simply told
"take a number, and wait over there with the rest
who 'couldn't wait' "
pressure.she was cracked in places only she could feel, and where the blood could only be tasted, and not seen.
her lips, fingertips and inside her chest. she learned that there are certain body parts prone to being cut or bruised, and her white laced knees could attest to that. but there comes a time when cutting your leg on the coffee table or pinching your stomach with your belt buckle, isn't an accident anymore. its something more, and you know it is. but you can go so long without ever admitting it to yourself, and even longer for anyone else.
sometimes she wanted to tear the skin off her arms and dip the bared bones under water
and see if they still swelled and grew into logs rather than the twigs she craved.
it was as if there were little sandbags under the surface and they were delicately lined
and the water would sink inside them and grow and bulge and drag her under
(sometimes she does, sometimes she considers herself the bird in the bush:
dewy feathers doing nothing but chilling her to the bone; and she floats, head hung,
waiting for the currents to make her less than the nothing she considers herself to be)
but the weight is invisible, and despite its insistence
and the grey she feels all over, her feet won’t reach the bottom;
her toes are the only thing losing feeling--
she painted them red. cherry red like summer’s lovechild even though winter
had already found its home beneath her bed; red and quiet and refined like
the paper women she’d seen in magazines. she wore spring blouses with flowe
i would say my father is a wari would say my father is a war horse but that is a failed symbol
because he has been dragged through the dirt as many times as this metaphor
i want to write in abstract like in a book of
contemporary poetry i bought over the summer;
it was all syllables and lines of 'talk talk talk' repeated over and over
i want to write something that describes how i feel without saying a word that describes it -
dust and ache and tired and bone and overflowing and lonely and fuck and .
i want to write poems that have meaning without being cliche i want poems
that defy grammar and space and time because when someone reads them, they become me
i want someone to read this and know
it is approximately 12:04am
and my ears are itchy and my eyes -
my eyes -
i feel a deer prancing behind my eyes, his heavy antlers pushing
against my forehead and i should name him athena because i've got an olympic-sized headache
but instead the deer yells WANNA GO?
and he says it like an angry, unde
starsi pray that someday soon, in a lonesome winter, your bones will cease to ache.
regrets will no longer break your morals like glass figurines,
you will not ask God to pardon your sins.
you will forgive yourself.
i hope, for your sake, that your butterfly-flutter eyes
will only be dampened with tears worthy of shedding.
your glory will shine out of those 2 crystal windows
and you will finally know what freedom feels like.
one day, in the midst of a dreary december, i wish for your wings to open wide
and carry you to heights far past any you have ever experienced.
your lungs will become blooming forests
with snippets of poetry carved into the tree trunks.
you will no longer be broken, but instead, crack into miniscule pieces
of yourself until all of the grace & goodness
buried deep within the crevices of your flesh
is soaked up by the atmosphere.
i am awaiting the day that i can finally lay next to someone i call lover
and point up at the stars to show him
fragments of you scatte
bad days.on my bad days,
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
11.the internal oceans are more threatening
it makes them cold
and leaves her shaking
right to her core
its okay in summer
but the icy blues
and stark whites
leave her shaken
and scared you'll
slip back inside
trying to warm
but really only intending
by association.don't shoot the messenger
she told herself
but her aim was unsteady
and the wind blew her off target
they were all rotten anyway.
fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the end
“i know you,” he says.
and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks like
he's a boy who may one day realize how much
he cares for you, so you cut him off and say,
“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”
“well, yeah, minus those.”
“then you don’t know me at all.”
and then you tell him,
i love you. but you don’t use those words
because those are taboo. are jinxed.
are knock on wood three times fast.
instead you press him in a hug and say,
i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understand
that this is the first time you ever cared for something
enough to try and fix it after you hurt it.
you hope he doesn’t ever realize what you’re saying
and his response will always be ‘what for?’ because
if he figures out he loves you nothing changes.
he’s just going to be in love with a corpse, a memory,
a pair of trigger happy hands,
any other way.the calender pages started to thicken and winter was drawing closer
she piled her jumpers into her drawers and re-stocked the tea supply
ready for her internal oceans to freeze and you to set up camp
(she never didn't figure out how you were in two places at once)
white noise.sometimes i turn off the greasy yellow lights and run the water lava hot.
the quiet porcelain is an untouched coffin
familiar as the look in your eyes.
i can hear my heart beat in my ears
and i stare at the ceiling until it darkens and blurs at the edges.
my body is heavy as lead
i cannot remember the weight of movement.
sometimes the closest i can get is the suicide between each breath
and the apology unspoken on the inhale.
my skin is a ladder i keep climbing,
i can see through the rungs to the fat cells that weigh down my bones.
my hand becomes his when it creeps uninvited over the landscape of my body
and across the staircase of my ribs.
i can't erase the feeling of his body pressed like a book
over my flower.
my head is white noise that bleeds red,
but i'm tired of all the blood.
tired of all the memories like channels
i keep flicking past.
sometimes i wonder if i cut enough slack in my skin,
the rest of my life should be early
mornings; when God is still sleeping.
I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,
pearlescent, like the primordial ammonites.
I follow you every night-
the hunter shooting at the celestial bull,
shimmering crusts of bread through the dimmest lands of passage.
Suggesting a way home.
Home, or across the ocean,
or everywhere under the moon if,
early mornings, when God still sleeps,
I wake up warm in the corner of the sofa,
and you are not an idea anymore.
the rest of my life should be early
mornings; when God is still sleeping.
I should wake up curled in a corner of the sofa,
pearlescent, like the primordial ammonites,
shedding my scales in the wash basin;
to, gleaming, climb back into bed,
turn off the stars.
I shouldn't dream anymore.
The OptimistAnd with the glory
of the rising sun,
a new beginning.
But the spaceman claimed
it was just
another world revolving.
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
Birthday celebrations.Twenty-three cigarettes
at midnight in honour of
the years you might have
but chose not to.
eight things that hurt more than a broken boneone,
i have never had broken bones,
but i imagine it would snap,
splinter, pierce my skin.
i imagine it would be
the pieces i cannot put back together
scratching their way out of
this body bag.
i imagine my demons would
not rest until my arms are torn
by the claws of my inside.
i'd imagine broken bones
would not hurt as much
as broken confidence,
(my lack of it.)
fluctuating positions in life.
the backbone of a dreamer
who finds nightmares her companion,
the fingertips of a mother,
pressed against feverish foreheads.
the lips of a teenage girl,
forgetting what truth sounds like.
i cannot remember the last time i did.
knotted hair pulled out at the roots.
nail polish remover spilled into wounds.
lips chapped red.
burned at the stake
dying on a scaffold,
unable to speak.
numbers on the scale,
tick-tack-toe on my wrist.
every blistering insecurity
that sends me spiraling.
not all humans go to heavencock it
april 23 2008
“bye mom. i love you so much, i swear
i’ll be home soon.”
“please, you’re only eighteen, you have your
whole life ahead of you, please
don’t throw it away.”
“i’m going, mom. i’m going overseas
but i swear i’ll be back before you
miss me. love you!”
most nights he shakes himself awake
with the vision of bombs and fire and bullets
still imprinted on his eyelids.
he doesn’t know what to call them.
the dreams, i mean.
what do you call bad dreams when
you’ve already lived the nightmare?
his therapist says his problem
is he thinks he’s not normal, that he doesn’t fit,
that he’s a special kind of monster.
she tells him that the key is figuring out the ways
that he’s the same.
so when he’s alone, or worried or stressed
or tired or hurt or wishing he were dead,
he traces over his collarbone and says
starvetoday, i don't hate myself enough
to deny the hungers for -
a cup of coffee that will treat me like sin dancing to the pulse of my bloodstream
the absence of guilt
cracks in personality
screaming poems silently at my reflection
today, i will gorge
on the things i vowed to give up.
today, i will break vows.
today, i am a glutton
for relapse and binge cycles,
for starvation and changing reflections.
tomorrow, i will wish
i could be the skeleton that
hangs in my closet.
[ leave the tears where they lie,
take the fallen stars and ripped up wings,
do not regret spinning circles
around vices. ]
quagmireJust like in everything
I pursued with a
the strings & knotting
so I can't
from the tangle
of our wrongings—
the ones I
to feel wrong.
Were I a saint,
I'd be one of sins.
Copyright © 2013 Jen Fowler
All Rights Reserved.