ofthesun

[ofthesun]

they say that love is not a fairy tale. if you look to it to fix you you look with broken gaze; love is not a magic that makes things perfect again. 

but love is a magic. 

(and, sometimes,  it is a fairy tale anyway.)

everyone has a past; sometimes, love is what hurts.  others, it stands idly by  and watches the pain.  i don’t think love will cure me or slay the shadows of my hauntings. 

but it gets dark early, here, and the shadows leave me slow and saddened and shivering.  but tonight, i smiled when the sun set.  

(i call her my moon but even when only stars  shine above me, i think of her.) 

and call me foolish  to believe in fairy tales, but if i asked, my love would pick up a sword to fight back any monsters that plagued me. 

(and if i asked, she would cast the sword aside  and hold me through the fear.)

love doesn’t magic things away but when i say love is magic i mean i laugh on days i feel like i can’t  and i stop to take pictures  of beautiful things i’d never noticed.  the world changes, even a little, and isn’t that what magic does?

#poetry #love poetry

[ofthesun]

darling,  give me your love and let it change me.

let me don it like armor and lift it as my shield; let me walk into battle protected, knowing no weapon will cut my skin. 

and if some blade does cut or bruise or break me, let your love heal me. through medicine or magic, wisdom or will, even if it scars, let it take my pain. 

name me your warrior, make me holy. if i am a knight in shining armor  it is only because you are at my side. 

and darling, take my life. take my love for you and let it change me.

perhaps i am no knight at all. you are everything; princess, warrior, treasure. perhaps it is selfish, but let me guard you.

let my hands morph into claws, my mouth fill with fangs. let me grow big and scaled and winged, let me steal you away to my hoard.

let me be monstrous

and 

love me anyway.

(love me because.)

(know that my claws will never rip your flesh and my teeth will never pierce it; know that when a dragon curls around something it is to protect it.)

knights will come to take you back; please, choose to stay. i will protect you but i will not chain you.

darling, our love runs through my veins like magic, like fire, like stardust and sunlight and moonbeams, and all of it is us,  is yours and mine and ours, and it has already changed me.

#poetry #love poetry

[ofthesun]

it’s quiet. the kind of quiet that makes me aware of the weight of my jaw and the tension in my throat, my teeth and my tongue and my silence.

(the noise of my breathing  and the clicking of my keys  is already so much.)

and i could scream.

(i think i could.)

i could make a noise that reminds the world that i exist. i could speak or whisper or sing but when i think to do it

i am frozen.

speak, i will myself. but this is the kind of silence  i don’t deserve to break. it’s quiet and calm and i can’t shatter that.

speak, and the loud hitch of my breath  is enough to make me freeze and wait for it to settle.

speak, but i don’t even have words i don’t know what to say or how to say it or who i am  when all there is is

silence.

(on the road outside a passing car bursts the silence with a pop) and i can speak again.

- worries a car never has

#vent poem #sometimes... i go nonverbal #and writing poetry makes me human again #that's all folks

[ofthesun]

sometimes,  i ask the person in the mirror who are you? and half expect  to get an answer.

(an answer that doesn’t come from me.)

i am an incomplete painting of other people’s desires. my self portrait is a patchwork quilt  with patches missing; i’ve never considered myself whole. 

i have sculpted myself to fit into boxes  and expectations. i’ve pulled off so much and thrown it away, taken on new pieces to fit right…  i don’t know how much of me is me  anymore.

you can’t love another until you truly love yourself

what happens  when you don’t know what it means  to be you?

(i want to love  and i do love; i love and i want--)

but how can i speak of want when someone i used to be ripped want from her chest and buried it in the back garden  of a house i no longer live in. 

(wanting was never  something i needed; it was easier  to let others want for me.)

(but maybe…  i could learn how to want again for you.

would that be okay? is it too far? am i too much? 

would you let me  step outside these boxes and reach for--)

you.  isn’t that where all my poems go? i love you i want you i reach for--

you. i ask so many questions in my poems because i want to know--

you.

and maybe i’m just trying to fit myself into the right box for you.

(but if that’s true then why am i so

afraid

of it being true? of hurting you?)

is that okay? is it okay if i don’t know who i am or how to want or why my hand shakes when i reach, wishing i could reach you?

(my hand shakes and  it’s not fear and it’s not doubt and i think, maybe, it’s--

wanting.)

i don’t think i can find the house where i buried my want, but i look out the window of this one and there are roses, reaching towards the moonlit sky.

- i think they bloomed for you.

#poetry

[ofthesun]

how can I talk about love when writing it in a poem  feels like trying to quantify it and i  can’t.

(how can i quantify the swell in my chest, the flutter in my stomach, my fidgeting hands—)

love is such a funny word. four letters to quantify something bigger than four infinities.

you can see it and you can define it but to pin it down  is to put a butterfly on a pin; wings spread, beautiful. (frozen,  flat)

(dead.)

but love isn’t dead; and putting it into words doesn’t kill it. it’s just that a pinned butterfly will never catch the light the way it did with fluttering wings.

(there are butterflies  in my stomach  that burst into my chest and i whisper  love into the dark.)

this isn’t to say  you can never  define love; you can take snapshots of its outstretched wings, film fleeting moments, and capture the feelings in poems.

-- snapshot 14

#poetry

[ofthesun]

i wonder, sometimes what it would be like not to bend under the weight of my own love.

(or under the weight of other’s.)

there are different kinds of heavy. there is stifling and burying and claiming-- and then there is comfort. there is a weight that won’t press too far.

(you wrap me with your words and i feel love build in my chest until it presses; but it doesn’t hurt.)

my past is written in the little things.  and there are days where i forget  that love is not meant to break you. 

but, softly, you remind me. 

— my scars are still there, but somehow you love them

#poetry