my body has stopped wanting
to be a body,
because it is tired
of pills
and it is tired
of being untouched
and unheld
and left behind
because it is easier
for other bodies
not to have to
drag it along.
my body has stopped wanting,
and this is scary
but hopefully also means
it is finally time to rest.
We ride a lot of trains here.
I always get stuck on the side with too much sun.
My freckles are coming back.
I’m so grateful I don’t have words.
Thought I’d lost them.
My feet are so tired they don’t remember rest.
My soles are in the shapes of cobblestones.
I can point out the cities I’ve crossed through
by the grooves from the rocks on my heels.
Bring them home.
A handful of dust from under each bed
I ever dreamt about you in.
I forgot to buy souvenirs,
too distracted,
but there’s enough sand in my suitcase
to make us a mountain.
Forgive the grains in my teeth
when I smile. This was a summer
I relearned my grin
and it would be too cruel to ask me
to stop.
It hasn’t been easy, without you.
I wouldn’t want it to be.
You were the moment that made this year
momentous, and even though it’s
not what it was, anymore,
I’m glad the memory gets to go
untouched. I know I don’t have
the same fate.
Sometimes it’s the middle of the night and I
forget, that we aren’t like we were,
and I’m halfway through a poem to you when
I realize I’m writing you,
yet again, and you won’t know,
because you don’t look for me,
at least I think you don’t,
sometimes the songs on your playlists sound
a little bit too much like
me,
and I hate that it makes me start to hope
you haven’t forgotten, you keep
looking, you maybe find yourself
halfway through a thought of me
before you remember
it’s probably best if you didn’t.
I hate that I don’t quite believe me.
I hate that I don’t quite know
what to do with my hands
when they’re not holding yours.
Quiet as I am, I’ve been collecting.
I’ve got biting words. Snap and snarl.
Flinching words. Smack and dodge.
The thud of tired words, hitting the mattress,
shoes thumping to the rug and
sighs muffled against pillows. Cool fabric
I wish lined my throat. Stuffing.
Make it easier to talk to strangers
by not having to say anything at all.
But you, you, you have words
like I’ve never heard before.
Good words. Big words. Silver-dollar words.
Leave you gasping laughing words.
Poking jeering dancing words.
Words that sparkle at the corners
of your mouth, meeting dimples.
Champagne words. Popping bubbles.
I think maybe one day you’ll teach me
softer words. Flower growing words.
Blossoming tending harvesting words.
Coaxing words. Saplings from soil.
Just enough rain to soothe the sunshine.
Warm and plush like a palm around mine.
When you said you liked me,
the air was flush with red-tinted words.
Like the tops of your ears.
Like the apples of my cheeks.
Words that crunch into me.
Words that hollow.
We’ve got a hundred thousand words between us
and we’ll make a hundred thousand more.
Just as long as you keep talking.
Just as long as you keep me talking.
We’ll trade these words for quiet, currency,
right when we need it most.
“Death Rattle”
It’s your car, and it’s dark out, more shadow than world,
more ghost than girl, my hands going inwards
every time you try and hold them.
The car rattles. Rocks. Lurches like we have been
swept out to sea, and the water is climbing
up the windowpane. Rain from below. Lightning cuts
through ink, so I can see your face,
just as we submerge.
“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it’s always our self we find in the sea.”
A poem on ships and growing older and growing beyond.
Every time I
every time I
every time I start to
speak your
mouth is there and I’m
tired, love, I’m tired of
interruptions and
vignettes and
to be continueds can’t you
stay tonight, if that’s okay, tonight,
there’s no planet out there to
save, tonight.
There is a bed, and
my cold feet, and
my nose against the
back of your neck breathing
deep you make it so easy to
drift.
Every time I fall
to my
knees and ask you to
linger you are there
a hushing
finger and I’m
tired, moorless,
drifting can’t you
tether me,
to you,
just
tonight.
There is little light
in our ocean tonight.
I must’ve loved you
for years now,
even though I’ve only known you
a month.
But you’ve got the sea in your mouth.
I wonder if you can taste it.
The salt grainy in the valleys
of your molars.
The tsunami building up
beneath your tongue
as your jaw shifts to let
all its roar out.
I know I must’ve loved you
because I was born in the sea,
because your waves have never scared
me.
And in a strange and terrifying flutter of wings, or maybe in a wave wake of a ship, my first book is out in the world.
Ocean Growing, by Meghan Bennett, available on Amazon and Kindle now and 5ever. It’d mean the world to me if you got a copy, left a review, shared with a friend ❤ It's so daunting to put your heart out into the world, but here goes.
xx,
Meg.
I’ve been hurting so many years now I’ve just taken to calling it
the universe keeping me on my toes.
Everyone else just calls it heartbreak.
What do you do, when muscle memory
only leads you back to tragedy?
poetgoes 