it’s complicated— 

the way you convert old film reel into digital,

you’re pressed into my side

and i wish i could rewind time

to watch you in hazy analogue

it’s complicated

when i look at

your smile in old photographs,

wishing the colors were more

saturated

love is a fickle thing

where i’m dawn and you’re dusk 

and i want to hold your hand at noon,

so the day is split evenly 

between us

but you are worth every second

that i lose,

every stolen moment,

every day that

passes into night

even if tomorrow

is the end of time,

my time with you

will never be less

precious.

for @buckyhasthephonebox commission info

commission a poem from me!

hi friends :D

I decided to try my hand at this commission thing so buy me a coffee! The more coffees you buy, the longer the poem! :D  

I'll write a poem of your choosing. Most topics are fine, including darker themes, but I have the right to refuse a topic. Every poem comes with at least one revision! I write both in rhyme and free-verse too! Just want to do something fun and great. Happy poems, love poems, sad poems, heartbreak poems, poems about your OTP. I got you fam. Hit me up! Sample poems: Take my soul If I die, let it be known that I never suffered from not loving enough My heart is to nourish you, give thanks to your existence When I die, please know that I love you so Take my soul and wear it to keep you from the cold dappled verb: the way sun streams down between tree branches as you look up past the green, the brown always seeking endless blue hope a rainbow promise from the corner of your eye

You can also check out my poetry tag!

Check it out and let me know! Thank you :D

loving you was like being in love with chaos and i swear, I thought I knew every direction of how it was supposed to go, but it never went that way except into a downward spiral that never made any sense because the map i made loving you was more ficticous than fiction, more fake than the smile i wore, more unrealistic than ever thinking you could love me in the way i wanted you to--

--and loving you was chaos personified where i had constant toxic butterflies that melted my wax wings and i fell into the ocean never learning how to breathe properly. being with you kep me holding my breath, hoping one day you'd make my dreams come true because

you were sunshine and bright things, buddled up in the hazy images of dreams i had of you late at night after i cried myself to sleep. i thought love was everything and wanting and longing and loud and crazy and--

loving you made me hate myself because each moment i spent thinking on how to get your attention meant less moments i spent on me and all i was left with was jagged parts of jealousy, insecurity, and reality

i forgot to love me too and when i think of our love, i am only left with the scars of anxiety that ruined of my girlhood self, my memories tampered with desperation, forgetting to actually know you.

I fell in love with chaos, with toxicity because I made you hold my heart in your two hands, believing with my whole being that love was supposed to be violent agony just like how it was on TV.

The ocean calls to me, beckons me home. The crashing waves on the shoreline whisper my name, leave kiss marks on my soul. Salty spray touches my cheeks, water seaping into my cells at a biological level.

The sea calls to me to rest my weary eyes under her sleepy waves on moonlit nights. To stroke my rage when the storm blows just right. To find solace in the peace after destruction.

The water calls to me, beckons me home where I'll never be alone.

The world’s edge flashes into existence only for a brief moment when the sun follows the curve of the earth and dips below the horizon. A scattering of clouds broken amongst the disappearing sunlight as nightfall sews the seam once again.

The human eye can’t comprehend the patchwork flow of the universe, our world seemingly ever open where there is an end. Photographs can’t capture it and maybe I won’t understand, but I’ll keep this moment for as long as I can.

books

Books fall into my life like a person interrupting the conversation I’m having with myself. It’s the little tap on the shoulder that causes pause from my constant inner dialogue of words that don’t make sense about thoughts I’ve had more times then I can count in a single lifetime.

Books rain down like golf ball size hail and dent my car all over and break the windshield. I don’t get to pretend that I don’t see the marks they make in my vision because the last thing I’m going to do now is not read them.

So, I stay up all night as the pages hold the knife to my back and I devour the pages and my heart has entered a new cult because how did I live before I saw this truth? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, but I fall in love with fiction much like how one develops Stockholm Syndrome.

I’m held captive by Hades and Persephone in all of their retellings, by every Beauty and every Beast, e.e. cummings when he says fuck you to structure because it’s his poems dammit and no rules will tie him down. Princess saving themselves, and fanfiction that show me that present tense is all I’ve ever needed.  

Books walk into my life and kiss me hard on the mouth. My soul is left with paper cuts, with teeth marks, with love bites. Words tangle into my hair and push me up against the wall, leaving me breathless because, oh, this is love.

I…I am not a fast person. I am slow in the way I walk, slow in the way I drive, slow–slow–slow.

I am only fast in love, eager to love, eager and willing to love, but I am slow in the way I enjoy my time with those closet to my heart. Our moments together are stretched out memories that are endless, timeless.

I work slow too. Work on one thing at a time, one foot in front of the other until the next one is in front of the other one. I give attention and wait and move slowly from one task to the next.

I am slow.

I am slowest when I read though, when I consume words and sit and listen and build the world the author has created for me. I craft each character from the skeletons and lay the foundations for their houses. I breathe each word as if I’m sleeping.

I guess I’m slowest when I’m enjoying anything wonderful mentioned above. Scenic routes, pretty trees, happy laughter, hugs, kisses, stories. These are always the most amazing slow things.

I breathe and ever breath pushes my emotions down, down, down until they rest at my feet. They travel along my bones, seeping into the small pores and discolor my marrow. It hurts, like growing pains when I was child when my knees ached and my dog jumped on the bed in the middle of the night and I screamed. I'm screaming still, my emotions growing like my skeleton that holds me up through the day. But sometimes I like to pretend they don't exist, that if I bury them under layers and layers of "I'm fine." I really like to believe that lie.

Sometimes it's so hard to breathe that it feel like my chest is cracking because the world stomped down on me.

There’s an invisible fire that coats my skin. It burns and burns from the inside out and it is–a white hot fire. Maybe even a solar flare.

It pools into my smile, making it blinding because my smile has to be dazzling. No one likes a sullen smile or someone who doesn’t emit pure happiness.

But anger simmers under my skin, my cheeks, my heart, a raging fire in the pit of my stomach and my words are toxic smoke that wisp out of my mouth. Fire travels through my veins, on my skin, an unbreakable container coating me from head to toe.

But my smile, my smile–my smile is a prison made from coals and embers that burn me, but to others--to others, it’s a gentle thing, soft and warm with no teeth to be found. 

(for my only act of rebellion is that I sharpen the words in my mouth)

Ambition is an oil slicked quality in a person--for the more they want something, the more they slide away from it. And they don't run away, ambitious people never run away, but you see, their hands produce this slime that makes everything they ever touch slip out of their fingers. The harder they try to hold it, the faster it pops out of their hands and goes to someone else. But here's the thing about the next person who picks up the object. Ambition creates an oil but soon enough it becomes tacky when left in the air. This person wants it too, but they're not nervous or scared or producing slippery oil. The slime is now sticky and clings to their hands like it belonged there all along. They're just enjoying life, living life and--- Well, I hate them all the while.

a hand is pressing on my chest,  melting into my flesh until it’s able to reconfigure its molecules and flood liquid mercury into my veins.  it’s weightless in theory, but the fluid metal swims and swims until it touches my inner wrists and moves my fingertips against my volition. it soaks itself into my lungs, onto my tongue until the air I breathe and exhale becomes metallic. frustration throbs at my temple, my body stuck in motion one foot in front of the other but never going forward.

i press my hand to my chest, using my nails to dig out anxiety that crawls beneath my skin and poisons me from the inside out. it doesn’t work on the first try the second try the third try but I try again. and again and again until i pull out a metal strand and drag my emotions with it. (i don’t tell anyone this but it takes several years to do this so I sit there for several years with mercury at my fingertips.)

this is-- everything and nothing that I ever hoped for. for I walk, I run, I sprint towards the distance never seeing, just moving map in my head, totally useless. I’m living not stalling, but actually living and it’s hard.

because it requires me to change, to become someone new and a part of me  doesn’t want to. this is-- not my everything and not my end, and that’s okay. (for now)

alternate definitions: music

you make sense with me

you make sense with me before two became two, or we became we, I made little sense just by being me. all over or under, through life’s silly waves, eight whole days and I can proudly say— you make sense with me. how rhymes are against my nature, you a haiku man yourself, to my free verse I write, but in all reality, you make sense with me. It is rather scary, but we became two and we became we, and I became me while we are still we. have I uttered it enough? you make sense (to)/with/[of] me. 

next steps

next steps— are those what we are taking? what will be at the end of our path— hold me closer. please, don’t let me walk alone. grab my hand and stay with me forever.

but I know that this cannot be. but that does not stop me from hoping.