Poetic Conversations with Lovers at Night

“Do you think the moon ever gets tired of hiking the sky every night?”

“I don’t think any living thing could tire of illuminating what hides in the day.”

“But how can something hide in sunlight? It’s so bright.”

“Yes, but you’ve spent so many days searching for yourself, only to find the answer rising and falling on his chest as the tide consumes you both. The moon merely tiptoes on stars, and the exhaustion pales in comparison.”

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What it’s like to paddle a sinking vessel

Can I call it dreaming if I believe
I stopped existing years ago?
It’s always the same one, too-
beluga whales trembling in my palms,
slipping between my fingers, back
into clear oceans. That’s when I figured
this must be a dream. I’ve never
been able to see through anything-
not even you. The staggering opaqueness
of your skin hid paper bones I wanted
to fold into tiny ships. I’d sail
all the way back to my first life.
This dream-like state is tiresome, and I’m exhausted
from treading crystal water. Your body
could take me back to the beginning;
to when I wrote ledgers beneath your flesh
and strummed chords between your lungs.
I am drowning, holding on to what little
there is left of my composure. Somewhere
a mermaid sings the song of her lover, and I
am waiting to wake up, swimming
beneath you.

Night Song

I’m standing on top of this mountain, and I don’t know how
I got here.
Where I am has always been a mystery to me.
And it’s not the kind of mystery that turns into a novel; my life
story has been anything but literary. These gentle bones
sway in the midnight breeze and shimmer under stars
I’ve never seen before. They are unfamiliar.

Where are you?
Where you are has always been quiet.
Cedar doesn’t smell the way it used to, and pine
never looked so dull as it does tonight.
Tell me I’m doing something right.
I need your permission to howl under an estranged
moon. You are my estranged moon.
You are the protagonist to this story I forgot
how to read.

Some nights I lie awake and wonder where the wonder has gone.
It’s not in you and certainly is not within
me. We are both different now.
You are the light in the night sky;
I, the call answered in dim forest.
We are the stories still going, the wolves at the head
of the pack.
You keep me turning pages.

What it’s like to be loved by you

I’ve been running for as long as I can remember because I forgot when I started. I forgot where, too. My feet are pounding against pavement like secret code. I inhale fire. There are ashes in my lungs, and exhaling only brightens the coals. The sun rests in my throat and I long for a finish line. My ears pick up breath some distance behind me. I don’t dare turn my head, but I know it’s you- I can tell from the heaviness in your gaze. Exhaustion begins to consume me, but you’re sprinting like hell. We’re side by side now and our shoulders polarise like moon to tide. You’ve always said slow was never an option, but it wasn’t until this moment that I realised, for you, I wouldn’t mind coming in second.

This poem is ten lines long; it’s about love and stuff

If I wanted, I could

fill the National Library with all the things

I love about her. But why waste time

in a place so plain, vanilla

ice cream seems eccentric in comparison?

A soul like hers deserves the universe, or

something bigger if there was

such a vessel. I would give her the stars

if I could, but she always did love

the smell of old books.

Organised Affection

It’s funny how we blame beauty on “good genes”,

spend $198 on a stupid pair of pants.

We lay awake at night

five inches from his comatose

bones thinking how we’d rather be breathing in the weight

of her troubled mind, but she always reeked

of good intentions.

We settle for him because the way our DNA intertwines

makes the nostalgia disappear.

 

We seek approval from our estranged parents

only to find they never knew us at all.

Recitals, graduation, birthdays attended by

a couple of victims on a string,

circulation cut off by the adoration of bruised children.

 

To say we’re sorry only minimizes the hurt. We

write an open letter to the world, how we need

love. We search for and lean

on tables or people or whatever will hold us.

Her mind set free like a canary in a cage with

arms like wings, held high.

Hope Is Real

I absolutely love To Write Love on Her Arms. This organisation has gained a lot more awareness over the past year or so, but I’ve been a fan ever since I can remember. I ain’t no groupie.

I can’t even begin to describe how much respect I have for the man who started TWLOHA. I only can dream of having as much compassion and love for broken people as Jamie Tworkowski did when he started TWLOHA in 2006, and still does today. If you go to twloha.com, there’s a link up at the top that says, “vision”. Read it. Read the story, too. You will be blown away. I’ve read both of these many times, and I still get the chills. It is absolutely mind blowing to know that there really are people in this messed up, beaten down, broken world that actually care about someone other than themselves. Like, I don’t know what else to say other than, “it’s amazing”. Because it is.

TWLOHA stays near and dear to my heart for a couple different reasons. Some that I like to keep secret, and others that I want to tell the world because everyone should know about TWLOHA. Everyone should know that they are unconditionally loved by God. Everyone should know that there is hope, even when it doesn’t feel like it. Everyone should know that they are not alone.

Yeah, I’m sure you’re sitting there saying, “You have no idea what my story is, don’t tell me I’m not alone. Don’t act like you know me. Cause you don’t.” I know, I’ve said it all, too. Most days it doesn’t feel like everything will be okay. Most days I want to give up and call it quits. But what I’m slowly starting to realise is, there are people that care about me, and there are people that love me. And when I don’t want to believe those things, God loves me, and God cares about me. I’m definitely not the most amazing Christian, I’m not a perfect little church girl, but the one thing I know for sure and will never ever forget, is that there is a God in Heaven who loves me so much. More than I can ever humanly comprehend.

I want everyone to know they are loved. Even by a complete stranger like me. If you’re reading this and feel like you have nowhere to go and no one to turn to, know one thing: I love you. Seriously, I do.

Honestly, I think I would have a different outlook on my life at the moment if someone told me all the things I’ve just written here. I wish I could’ve had the chance to meet someone like Jamie, but being a Jamie to someone else would be so much more fulfilling. Sure, it’s scary talking to people about your problems. It makes me so uncomfortable. It’s terrifying, but absolutely necessary.

I want everyone I meet to feel wanted because I know how awful feeling unwanted is. It’s just horrid. But I would do anything to make sure someone never gets to the low I’ve been to. I know there are people out there that have it way worse off than I do, but I’ve been hurt pretty bad on more than one occasion and want to do anything I can to not let anyone be anything but happy.

So go to twloha.com, read their vision and story, be moved by it. It has definitely moved me. More than once, too! I love everything this organisation stands for and does for people. I only hope one day I can impact a broken life even for a moment. A smile, a hug, a shoulder to cry on. Anything. But nothing I can do even comes close to the amazing love and help that TWLOHA could give someone. These people seriously rock. They save lives.