i’ve decided that icarus was just a silly guy, giddy with joy at being being free from imprisonment, and that he loved the sun and the sun loved him too. so this is a poem from the sun to him.
(alternatively: i have been listening to “sunlight” and “i, carrion” by hozier too much.)
I find comfort in the night. The rest of the world slows down, and my mind follows suit. The peaceful silence washes over my surroundings, soothing my weary soul. The minutes that go by are mine alone, and what I do with them is between me and the Moon.
I have decided the next man I meet
who makes me nervous
is getting blocked,
walked away from-
I'll run if I have to.
No conversation,
no glances,
no more whirlwind romances,
I'm not giving chances.
I'm through.
Who the hell decided butterflies in the tummy
was something to romanticize in the first place?
For me, I think it's my body trying to tell me to
get as far as I can from this demonic creature
who will only cause me harm but
I kept thinking it's a good thing if his presence
can make me stumble over words.
Hell no.
Neutrality is the way to go.
The man you're mostly unaware of
until he gives you good reasons to be.
The one who doesn’t prey on the
unbalanced chemical reaction that happens
when you lay eyes on him.
And maybe the love story won't be
the stuff of an indie romance film
but it will be stable and real.
It won't give you more material from which to heal.
It will provide you with bliss more enduring
than the intoxications of fleeting butterflies.
If I start writing again, I don't want to just hold on to it this time. I want to publish it. Whether that's an actual book or poetry. I want the world to experience my love through words. Words that mean the most to me.
something in me
changes at night.
perhaps it
knows for certain
that all the best adventures
happen after bed time.
it feels like you opened time
like a zipper--
where everything sucks
but all is well.
all is well.
one step and slide:
the swollen knee boogie;
still I glide
over the carpet like its water;
the red light of the alarm clock
blinks out into the void
like a light house--
I crash upon my bed
like waves upon rocks--
I hold my pillow up to my ear
and I hear
african poems,
drums of war;
made up stories under neon lights
laughter, car doors shutting, and crying in the dark.
crying sounds different in the dark
all alone-- it feels more true.
crying feels more real when it's a secret.
“the feminist’s first adversary is also her first love: her father.”
“Often father and daughter look down on mother (woman) together. They exchange meaningful glances when she misses a point. They agree that she is not bright as they are, cannot reason as they do. This collusion does not save the daughter from the mother's fate.” - bonnie burstow
“I’m no longer ashamed of my process. Gone are the days of hiding the unkempt parts of my reality. I am present, declaring, ‘this is me, this is where I am’”