long road lover

what if i want to
smother you
in the words of my mouth,
on a long night
do i encase it in the air,
or the flash of synapses
in my brain
and send it to you on the dawn?

what if i need to
hold you and stroke your hair,
hear your breath
and catch your eyes
to prove it,
do i force my fingers into
ink strokes
and through
glowing screens
to reach your body?

do you really
feel me?
it’s not enough
the five love languages
declared mine not to be
physical touch,
yet this
is not
for my love.


Prose #2

i take my mistakes too seriously.

Your soul told me something else.

That maybe I was mistaken, perhaps I was just homesick or desperately lonely. The melancholy I feel this evening is insurmountable. My windows open, the night sounds drift in, and if I forget the cars for an instant, I am home. It is early September in the beautiful hills and valleys of Appalachia, and the green night sparkles in the moonlight.
I am nostalgic, so I want to call you, but the number I have is void, the line I tugged is cut, and you, you are free and dancing in the green night without me.
Although I held the knife myself, you struck the blow—so what can I say? Nothing, yet a multitude of words gather in my heart at the sight of those emerald hills glistening with dew, twinkling as your eyes did before you kissed me. Do I miss you, or do I simply envy you? Do all the fires of my being want to be you, so I can drink in the air I long for and kiss the ground of my homeland, like some sailor starved to near-death, just for solid land?

Solid land, on this empty night, is still resting on your shoulders, and that is my greatest shortcoming. I will continue to wake up at dawn, roll over in the gray light, and beg, plead, for sleep to take me back. I want to escape the feelings of sadness and shame when I realize, in the real world, you are far different from mine or any other’s impression of you. The bitter concoction of guilt and anger remind me…I never really asked you.

You, your moonlight clothed arm resting against me, like a test of my reliability. All I wanted was to shy away from your violent magnetism, drawing me in against my will, or to back down submissively, a good dog to a nonchalant owner, embarrassed to possibly interrupt you with my whirlwind of feelings.

But this night is different. This night’s darkness is too strong, eating me up from the inside out. Soon I’ll affix my loneliness to some other star, a distant body of light that I will, once again, know nothing about. But tonight I just want you. I want to kidnap you, steal you away into the verdant dusk, and dance like children across the face of the moon, and when you grow sleepy, I will kiss you three times before I bid you goodbye, and you sail off into the land of dreamers. My only hope is that your letters to yourself—their sincerest wishes— are greeted by the burning of a thousand beacons of light, leading you to the morning.

I wish I had sent you away like that.

Prose #1

I’ve been working on some short prose pieces recently. While my ability to write is significantly hindered by learning a second language at present (I oftentimes have to stop and think for a long time about the English word I want to use), it seems easier to write novella-like segments to communicate a story.

I kissed him. I did. I’m the girl who set the time bomb, watched it count down, and kept my promise to him, to be there. I picked up crushed flowers and treasured them, just like I did when I was only twelve years old and so small and vulnerable.
His crushed flowers.
They were dramatically more broken than I had realized, those eyes. When I looked into them I saw his father, aged and white headed, setting his lips together in a fine line of contemplation, and I knew I could never marry him. How could I look at that image every day? Yet I longed for the nostalgia of the past. Fall evenings, train whistles, spice cabinets, red covers. I wanted to dive into that safety, that simplicity. I wanted to dive into his bookshelf, the demarcation I allowed myself, just to tip toe into his mind and whisper into the darkness, “wake up, our childhood is calling us.”
I could give up my entire dream and settle for this simple life. I could trade my soul for his happiness. I could trade his happiness for security. I could just become a bookshelf.
But kisses do not turn you into bookshelves. Platonic love does not magically become star-crossed destiny. Scratch a scab, the sore doesn’t heal. My greatest, most empathetic heartache for all of his twisted brokenness could not put on the mask of romanticism and dance around us, for my heartache was too deep and too strong of a monster to conceal. His firm words were those of a brother, and my entire being which turned to trust those words, a sister. I could not chase the stars with the son of a memory.

So you were right. It was me.

Orange Juice

Came out sassier than I intended. Sounds like me at fifteen, so ok poem I guess. 

you said we’d still be here
when I’m twenty-five
asphalt and midnight
so where’s your orange juice
now, my boy?
will you stretch yourself
again across the sky
to reach for my eyes and
seek out my empty approval
in the warm summer night?

you won’t.

so why
should’ve I
held my tongue and carried on
with your childish ideals
that our platonic union
would last

Super Glue

I gave up on NaPoWriMo this year because I simply lack all form of inspiration. But today I wrote this kind of sad poem. Anyway. 

In the late summer
I saw you lying there
across from me
in the soft darkness
of a Seoul night,
you, a gray phantom
and I reached out to touch
your narrow back
covered in heather flecked slate,

but I shouldn’t,
you couldn’t love me
even now I am imagining
the starry eyed confession
you might give to me,
the sinful, volatile,
explosion that is my
over sexed and over thought
sense of self,
educated yet never studious
how could I?

I pull back the hand
which threatens to
collide and
crash and
super glue
the universes of my
perpetual coldness and
your invisible warmth,
if only I was still the girl
I was when I was
still me,
and she’s still not good enough
for you.

A Day in Summer, Many Years Ago

sweating bullets
eighty-five degrees
Bristol, Tennessee,
thighs searing on the
baby blue leather seats
the inside paint job is
soft, girlie pink,
but the outside finish
of Pa’s old truck is katydid green,
flying down the interstate
window vents cranked out,
my grandmother’s lead foot
the guide of this clunky Ford,
a sip of sticky Mellow Yellow
a glance back
through big square mirrors,
a ridiculous menagerie
of furniture in the bed,
tied haphazard
with rough, white ropes.