I knew you before I met you. I knew your cheeks would be made of sunshine. I knew rays of light would spill from your lips with your every smile. I knew you.
Sometimes you look at me and you ask me what I’m thinking. I smile, and I say “Nothing.” Truly, though, it is something. It’s the most beautiful something I’ve ever known.
-Do you still think i will destroy you?
-Yes, women always do that.
-I´m not a bomb, Ibrahim; i bleed as well, i had told you what i think about you, and more than once said how i felt, and you said how you felt.
-But that doesn´t change anything.
-Of what? “To love is to destroy, and to be loved is the one destroyed”, it does change something: you had opened to me.
-Damn, i never should have done that.
-You could have chosen not to say anything about yourself; you could have said no, but you did anyway. Are you afraid of me?
-I´m afraid of being hurt again.
-I wouldn´t break you.
-How could you know?
-Let me try, let me in.
-You are already too close.
-I won´t explode.
-It´s like you´re getting into the danger zone.
-Stop resisting me, i´m not kryptonite..
Alice: How long is forever?
White Rabbit: Sometimes, just one second.
I think about you when I see that blue melted ice cream color or when I touch a rusty nail and its flaky skin rubs off on mine. You’re always wearing black in my memories and I can feel my thumb track down your waist, guided by your sweater’s seam.
You will fall in love with someone who’s cold and always seemingly pushing you away. When all is said and done, they will be forever known as the one person you couldn’t get to love you. Unfortunately, it will hurt and sting worse than the good ones, the ones that chopped up your meat for you and picked out an eyelash from your eye and were nice to your mother, because love often feels like a game we need to win.
That there is a panic in my chest is not relevant. I am tired
of writing sad poems. Baby goats. Peanut Butter cookies.
Beyonce. There, Now it’s happy. I don’t know what it means
to be a good artist but I know how to read palms and draw
on my eyebrows like fucking Liz Taylor so I do have that.
This poem is for your eyes only. This poem is a knock-off
of a knock-off of a knock off. This poem is a purse bought
in Chinatown. The secret about this poem is it wishes it
were like all the other poems. The sequel to this poem is me
naked in bed beside you like every other night and me naked
in front of strangers like every other poem.
Happiness is not the absence of problems, but the ability to deal with them. Imagine all the wondrous things your mind might embrace if it weren’t wrapped so tightly around your struggles. Always look at what you have, instead of what you have lost. Because it’s not what the world takes away from you that counts; it’s what you do with what you have left.
I still think about you. I still sometimes think you’ll find something funny and practice how I’ll say it on the phone in my head for the few moments before I remember. Ex-smokers will flick their index to their middle finger trying to ash a phantom cigarette and that’s how I feel when I’m in my bed and I reach my left hand over and rub the fabric against my palm instead of feeling your skin.
Ella es demasiado sensata como para darle cabida a más días en esta relación, ella bien sabe que las segundas partes no son más que un revoltijo de las primeras y que cada día que pasamos juntos no es más que una destructiva contradicción, una estúpida idea de tenernos a tan corta distancia y querernos tanto, a destiempo y sin horario. Ambos sabemos que nos pertenecemos, que estamos conectados, que los momentos que pasamos se irán acumulando ,de a poco, despacio, e irán tejiendo una maraña de insensatas decisiones que nos llevaran al abismo del que habíamos salido la noche anterior.
Conoce cada movimiento de mi persona, cuantifica los minutos y comprende que algunas veces y a ciertas horas me convierto en lo que tanto llegué a odiar.
Ella es demasiado sensata como para darle cabida a más días en esta relación y sin embargo se encuentra buscando en mi, lo poco que le hace falta para alcanzar perfección.
My brother killed himself
on the twenty-eighth Thursday of last year
and I missed four days of work
and my mom wanted to know ‘why’.
he was always a fan of beauty
but what he did
was not beautiful at all.
And last week I got the news
that one of my good friends from high school
except this time
she’d gone too far
and now she was gone.
And I had a hard time falling asleep at night
and her mother
hugged me tight
and thanked me for coming to the service
but I did not
want to be there at all.
This is not
The girl down the street
would’ve turned 21 last year
and I can scarcely imagine
the wild times she would’ve
But she is buried six feet deep
after falling nearly 300
and she did not leave a note.
This is not
My freshman year of college
and my roommate was beautiful
and how I wanted to be just like her.
But she wore herself down
till she was
and if you blinked
you had to go and find her all over again.
So now her parents are no longer supporting her college tuition
but are paying her hospital bills
watching their daughter crumble.
This is not
So y’all can take your narcissistic
of self harm and eating disorders and committing suicide
and shove them as far up
as you possibly can.
Starvation is not beautiful.
Killing yourself is not beautiful.
is not beautiful.
This note I am writing
is not beautiful.
you are beautiful
and it’s about damn time you start believing it.
My older brother received a call at two pm on a Thursday,
That his roommate from college
And best friend from high school;
Overdosed and died,
Last Wednesday night.
My brother is 25 years old.
He missed three days of work, sat at home in the dark,
And cried for the first time in six months.
This is not poetry.
My father is very, very sick.
He sleeps for seven hours,
To build up a half hour of strength,
Just so he can pick me up from school.
He hasn’t been well in over a year.
He prays every night, “Thank you God, for making this happen to me, and not my children.”
I am swallowed in fear,
That soon enough, he will go to bed,
And never wake up.
This is not poetry.
There are thousands of people,
just to have one more day,
In hopes that it will get better.
You people glorify sadness,
and long for your death,
because apparently life,
is just too much of a burden.
Wake up, your ignorance is sickening.
Your life is thousands of times more beautiful,
Than your death will be.