She was a wildfire, spitfire,
She was a wildfire, spitfire,
I am the skeleton
who lives in your neighbourhood,
wrapping fingers ‘round flowers,
I am the voice
at the edges of phone calls,
those lingering moments
I am the woman
who drifts on the wind,
reaching out for the sunset
I am the girl
you killed in the bathtub, when you
told her you were nothing
I am the memory
who sits in your dreams,
and whispers sweet words,
— Farewell Letter, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, upon finding out he has terminal cancer & retiring from public life.
I laughed and laughed until they wrapped their hands around my heart and squeezed, and suddenly, short of breath, I am bursting everywhere all at once and it is terrifying.
I wish I could wrap you in my arms and tell you it’s all going to be okay, but I suspect those aren’t the words you need right now. I’m so sorry it’s all very hard right now, but I want to let you know that even though you feel like you’re shattering, you’re still whole in the very core of you - I don’t know what we do when the world is like this. I could tell you smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and cry, but that won’t do anything to change it. I think maybe the best thing you can do now is take it day by day: remembering each day, that you are whole and strong, even when you feel like your skin has melted away and everything is raw. Deep inside of you, you are warm. And this day will pass.
"What are we holding onto, Sam?"
"That there’s some good in this world, Mr Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for."
They tell me, count your spoons,
Cradle them to your chest, don’t
let them go for anybody but yourself.
Drink soup, and sleep.
I am looking at my hands
and I think my fingers are turning
into coffee-spoons. I am scooping
at life, and only ever picking up
sand, and they are pulling at my joints,
and I am exploding in a thousand
I need forks, you see, or knives,
something I can cut through the world with,
and drink from the nectar within.
I am too much of a thunderstorm,
not enough of a rainshower.
I am pulling at the roots of things.
And they are telling me,
keep your spoons,
scoop pudding and dream.
And I am telling you,
I want to set the world on fire.
Give me matches, and I will burn the steel
I know my poetry lately has been rather ordinary, but I’m just so excited that I’m writing again, after months of drought.
I always thought trigger was a strange word.
A word that held the promise of destruction,
that when unleashed would throw us back
into the walls, panting, bleeding. I always
thought that it was cruel to give a name
to what I spend my days running from,
for fear of riven skin and open hearts.
A word that you never forget. A word
you spend your life fearing. A word,
like a bullet in a gun.
There are nights that I think of you
as the little girl with pigtails in her hair,
and a nervous lilt in her step.
Nights, when you are scared
and you cannot find the way home,
and I am silent in the backseat.
And the mornings you pull on your kilt
and look at the way your thighs touch, and think,
I am two parts of a whole coming together.
I am watching you cry into your earl grey,
and your mother hovers by, and laughs,
because what else is there to do but break?
I can hear you now, still, echoing through the wind.
The way you said your name is the way
I fall asleep: quietly, and dreading the fall.