More secure, they say--

New locks for the bland blue door.

Strangers installed them.

NaPoWriMo, Day 17

This is a poem about how

I can't remember the last time I truly broke down. This is a poem about how I turned loneliness into something tangible. No, that's a lie, it's a poem about how almost nothing feels tangible. This is a poem about how empty arms feel when the embrace is just theater. This is a poem about how food shopping has become my big night out, and how it is actually terrifying. This is a poem about how I don't want anyone near me, how I don't want to be touched, how I still miss being touched, how I can't miss what I never had to begin with. This is a poem about first choices, and what that might feel like. This is a poem about disappearing.

-kab

This is a lot of text. I am sorry if it's a bit unreadable. I know that I said that I'll continue the post from yesterday but I have the memory of (insert an animal with no memory). Sorry. I have come to the conclusion that I always want an orange.

National Poetry Month Day 10: Connective Tissue by Amanda Phingbodhipakkiya

National Poetry Month Day 9: Rihanna in Molly Goddard

Listen with ears of tolerance! See through the eyes of compassion! Speak with the language of love

Rumi

NaPoWriMo, Day 16...

I never wanted to die (after Dorianne Laux)

though I was sure I'd never make it past 30. I was sure that I would meet a violent end, that some irate person would return to where I work and fire off bullet after bullet, and one or two would hit me in the chest and neck, and suffering would last only a little longer. I was plagued with nightmares of being dead, watching flowers bloom and die, seeing others I knew still in motion while pieces of me rotted into a pine box. My mind likes to test this theory, keeping me bound in melancholy deeper than I can dig out of—quitting seems like the fastest means to an end, where overthinking and worry can be laid to rest as well, but still, there could be something left here for me—a few more days for the trees I've planted to bear fruit.

-kab

Change your inner thoughts to the higher frequencies of love, harmony, kindness, peace, and joy, and you'll attract more of the same.

Wayne Dyer

I missed writing things that doesn't really make sense but I can still understand them. If you have any idea what I'm talking about, write a comment or something and we can start a discussion. (Please write I'm bored. I need to do things, help me procrastinate).

NaPoWriMo, Day 15

a billet-doux

tucked inside of an envelope, buried in a cigar box, left unwritten but always floating in my head—a secret kept where i tell you that i cannot stop looking at your mouth, that i cannot speak your name without closing my eyes and seeing us tangled above sheets, without the daily need of your honeyed skin against mine. there is so much i want to tell you. mostly, that your name sounds like home.

-kab

When you are tired so you use a pre written song and get worried about yourself, but you are too tired to really care and kind of find that amusing.

Nature’s rendezvous

NaPoWriMo, Day 14...

the voice in my head said

every glass in every room here is empty, is smudged with marks from hands and lips that have vanished. we are always so quick to abandon things that no longer serve a purpose. the voice in my head said, why can't i slice off the bloat, recycle it into something that will not sputter and crash— chewed cartilage is still cartilage, is useless even as compost. the voice is a pinch at arm fat, the list of complaints folded and swallowed. the voice in my head reminds me that i am always ready for the silence to begin, for glass to shatter, to once again become sand.

-kab

I have this habit of lying in my bed, ready for sleep and all of that, but then I just spend so much time on my phone doing god knows what.

The shackles weigh me down,

Comfortable

And familiar.

Stay or go,

Yes or no,

It's a hard pick

When the energy for

What ifs

Isn't around.

And so my dreams remain

Cold, dull, and dear to me.

NaPoWriMo, Day 13...

I open my fingers

and watch my hands purple, study the plumpness, the way lines cut through the skin. There are so few blemishes, such preservation within the meat of the palm. They are familiar with this bareness, this lack of need. I hold my hands finger to finger, create a friction to simulate love, to know what it feels like to be a first choice, to not have to always be reaching.

-kab

I am near tears right now. Music, lyrics, they all have so much power, and I can only hope that one day I'll be able to create something as powerful.

NaPoWriMo, Day 12...

I still haven't forgiven myself for this life

that has dipped its feet for far too long in the waters of mediocrity, that has me waking up to a thumb in the back, to the deafening chorus of inadequacy. I want to learn the art of gentleness when I fail, when my skull is an unstable fault line ready to crack open. I want to find sow the good seeds within me and grow something useful—embrace amnesia, forgive the expectations of phantoms, build a home that will withstand the harshest winds.

-kab