"There's A Special Place In Hell For People Like You, You Know That?"

"There's a special place in hell for people like you, you know that?"

"You bet. The V.I.P. section, baby."

sometimes a poem is just a poem and sometimes a poem is actually a confession and sometimes a poem is a person and sometimes a poem is a cardinal. sometimes art is just art and sometimes art is actually therapy and sometimes it’s a pipe and sometimes it’s also not a pipe. 

sometimes the text is “got home safe!” and sometimes the text is actually saying i already miss the way your hair feels in my hands and sometimes the text is a warning and sometimes the text is thank you for caring. sometimes you are on the phone with your friend and you’re talking about curious monkeys but you’re also both admitting how lonely you are but you’re also both talking about how love can be a bicycle and sometimes it is not a conversation it’s an intervention and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s a poem and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s an art piece and sometimes it’s just a conversation but more often it’s holding hands without touching

& sometimes you are in an argument about the dishes but none of the things you are mad about are about dishes, they’re about the stuff around the dishes and the hands and the soap and how he smelled on sunday of another girl. sometimes the dishes aren’t even dishes they’re blankets and sometimes they’re burnt food and sometimes they’re your favorite book. sometimes the song isn’t a song sometimes the song is a manipulation and sometimes the song is just bad and sometimes the song is stuck in my head from you singing it in bed and sometimes it is “i listened to this so i could learn what you like” and sometimes it is “i showed you this because i want to also show you my palm lines and my heart and the inside of my head.” 

sometimes you are dancing alone but you are not dancing alone because you are picturing seeing her in a green velvet dress across the room from you, and sometimes you are dancing with ghosts, and sometimes you are dancing with your mother’s voice. sometimes it is not a dance it is a walk and sometimes it is not a walk it is lying in bed and sometimes it is not lying in bed, it is not-dying, which is often good enough for survival purposes. 

& sometimes you say  oh, take a cookie with you when you go and you mean that i should take a cookie and sometimes you mean - take me with you, also. sometimes it is just burning something and sometimes it is burning something and sometimes it is burning a lot of other things first. sometimes it is just a shirt and sometimes it’s what you wore when you kissed her and sometimes it’s what you wore when you didn’t kiss her and sometimes it’s what you wore to the movies when you saw your last in-theatres movie without knowing it would be your last in-theatres movie. 

& sometimes the poem is just a poem and sometimes the poem is my earring in your hand and sometimes the poem is your smell and sometimes the poem is calligraphy and sometimes the poem is good lord you are addicting and sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is unfiltered yearning and sometimes the poem is an anvil and sometimes the poem is - can i write a home, can you crawl in, can we be like little ferns, all curled up in bed. sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is a dance and sometimes the poem is saying - no, i will skip showering, if you need me there, i’m coming.

"You have time."

They say

"You are still young."

But one day I won't be.

One day soon I won't be.

And then what?

And then what?

I lost track of the wounds

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was the one you gave me

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was you

In the end

It was the betrayal that slaughtered me

Before the blood loss

When your eyes sliced into my soul

Puncturing the vital organ

I was dead before your blade parted flesh

Ghost before my body hit the ground

~

In the end

My final breath

An exhale of your name

That still tasted like home on the tounge

My blood forgetting to be afraid

In your familar palms

~

But if I am spirit

Why I am the one haunted?

By you

Or some part of you that perished

With me

Begging for mercy

I do not know how to grant you

~

And if you lived

Why did I find you

Haunting your own shell

When I returned to

Forgive you

~

~And Caeser Thinks: If Betrayal Is A Kiss, I am Glad I Tasted It Last From Your Lips

My mother tells me it is not me she dosent trust out in the world but rather that she does not trust the world with me.

And I learn from a young age what a privilege it is to be endangered.

To be wanted into extinction.

To be desired into oblivion.

In this same way my grandmother tells me that sometimes honesty sounds alot like silence.

That sometimes the truth is quiet.

In this same way my sister teaches me that forgiveness comes when she is ready.

~

Most days there is only forgiveness.

Cupped in my palms

Trying to stop it from trickling through my fingers.

I sip it every morning

Which is to say I seek forgiveness

From myself

Everytime I dare show my face to the sky again.

With the knowledge that I will inevitably break promises I made to me

That I will inevitably transgress against the girl I could become

And every morning I ask for her mercy

But she cannot grant it to me

For I have not granted her existence yet

And in this way I live in sin

~

Self destruction dares to taste foreign on my lips

Like rotting cherries

But how much easier it is to relearn old habits the second time around

When the mouth still tastes like burning teeth

~

I flinch so violently at the sound of my name

daring to disturb the molecules of the ether with something so undeserved

Petals fall from grace

It is my fault

Always my fault

Oh rebellious bones

How my blood blisters my veins

I think this is the way

Love moves

~

and this is how it ends

the last notes of my blood composed of subpar symphonies finally slip out into the void

my radio static heartbeat fades to quiet

and this is how it ends

in my final moments

the universe sings me to sleep

with one last lesson

my mother never had the words to teach me

and the endless silence of the infinite

caresses me into oblivion.

i exhale one last shooting star

weightless at last

as i disintegrate into the galaxy

with the realization of what a beautiful mercy

it is

to be forgotten

~

poetry dump of random lines that mean nothing in particular unless you'd like them to

what if when icarus fell apollo caught him before he hit the sea, arms as warm as the sun, but safer.

what if when ariadne cast the rope across a broken branch aphrodite stepped in with a reminder that this, this is not the kind of love you die for.

what if when achilles was ready for war ares appeared with a smile and said “you win well when you win, but what are you unwilling to lose if you lose?” and achilles knew the answer.

if you could retell the tale wouldn’t you want to tell it kinder? wouldn’t you want to give them peace, even love, where you could?

l.s. | I AM TIRED OF RE-WRITING TRAGEDY WITHOUT CHANGE. LET THEM LIVE. LET THEM LEARN. LET THEM LOVE © 2016