Hey stranger. It’s been a while.
Category: Text
Measuring By Hands
It’s my own fault that I’ve forgotten
what my hands feel like when they’re being held.
You can’t dig your own grave then sue the coffin maker.
I used to think loving others made up for not being loved.
Like having a heart too big to hold between two palms was a
good thing, a proud thing, a noble thing.
I used to think if I kept my head down long enough then one day
I would look up at exactly the right moment,
but never let myself wonder how I’d know that moment when it came.
When you’re only ever staring at your shoes
no one’s gonna fall in love with the top of your head.
When you’re only ever staring at your shoes
you’ll never recognize love by their toes.
Holding your own hand ever only makes your arms tired.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t kept practicing.
Love’s fingers have promised they’ll fit perfectly.
Love’s fingers haven’t tried mine on for size.
If I Ask You
If I ask you to look at me like you look at the moon.
If I ask you to ask me to stay. Get a bigger bed. Make room for me.
Are you as open as you say you are. Is the space
next to you on the subway.
Is it for me. Are you saving it. Are you saving me.
Please save me. Or don’t. Let me save me?
If I ask you to look at me like you look at the sun.
Do I make you blind or crazy?
When it comes to loving me, is there a difference.
Is there a difference. Is there a difference.
When it comes to loving the moon, the sun, the stars,
the earth, the sea, the city, the country.
When it comes to loving them, am I different.
Tbh There’s Not A Lot of Foundation
a poem about two-second love affairs with strangers, especially the strangers you know.
The Black Skirt
My basic everyday uniform is a black skater skirt. I wore it almost every day in high school and every day my first year of college; it’s become my trademark. It’s so rare for me to deviate from this that I wore a pair of jeans one time in NY and my roommate walked in the door, stopped short, stared at my legs and said, “You’re wearing pants.”
Letter to Ankle Bruise
You’re fading from my existence, like blue haze over hills, like broken blood vessels under flesh.
poetgoes 