His hands are rough. This might have been from carrying the weight of the world for so long or gripping at the ropes too tightly. And yet, he is gentle in the way he smooths… More
I’m a woman with an old soul. I like the hot sun and the cold rain, the glamour of the city lights, the noise at a crowded bar, the silence of a book shelf. I believe that joy is contagious, love can make people dizzy, and that people are innately good. I’ve had enough of handsome sadists, dim Adonises and brilliant couch potatoes.
This page is for anyone who has loved, lost, or made a fool of themselves, in the name of love.
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It has been twelve hours since
my caution melted and I moved
from curling my fingers around
your hand to tracing your features.
Unzip the subtle freckled lines on
my flesh. I swear my heartbeat is
not as cold as my fingertips. You
can wrap your arms around my
winter bones. Let me feel your
hot breath against the notch on
my spine. I will arch my back and
you will smile and whisper how I
taste like summer. And I’ll laugh
as I tell you how you’ve burned me
like the sun. If sin was what we
conquered here, then I swear,
no hell had ever burned so sweet.
*For #sizzlingsummersins hosted by the fiercely, feisty, passionate, crazy and lovable Daughters of Nin:
Take pride in the chaos of your metamorphosis.
*For © Our Poetry Journey Contest
You’d be surprised how often the
synapses in my brain connect in
arching, looping patterns, how
often I start poems with the
intent of writing for to you.
I think you imagine my heartbeat
relentlessly preoccupied with
the movings of the world and not
about the way my fingertips and
your skin melt together. My lips
and hips don’t travel to the same
places my words do. But if you take
time to read me, you will realize
every love letter is for you.
*For © Our Poetry Journey Contest
The kisses you gave me were
promises you didn’t mean.
There I was, like a Thespian,
pretending your kisses can
give me wings, but truly they
were a metal case, clamping
over my heart and lungs. Teach
me how to breathe through my
skin. I don’t ever want to
use my lips again.
*Thespian – For © Our Poetry Journey Contest
I want you to plunge into the messy chaos
of my sheets, buried in your own breath,
clawing your way out with my name on
your lips. I want to burn in the oppressive
heat of your body, your fingers knotted into
my hair like I am knotted around your waist.
I want you unzipped in front of me, peeling
away every layer of every other girl you’ve
ever been with, until only my fingerprints
litter your skin. I want you unraveling at
the edges and melting into my palms.
It has taken me this long to realize
that my body has a hard enough time
healing itself without me breaking it
to completion. Yet my instinct is still
to throw my stupid heart under moving
trains, never satisfied to let leaving
things go without tearing me apart.
I have made a sport out of confusing the chronology of discovering you, forgiving you, anticipating you, and forgetting you. I have to accept the fact that it’s over, and it’s time to stop dragging your shadow like a carcass around my shoulders, thinking you’re still with me, when you’re just a living memory. Still attached, umbilical.
I am learning that sometimes joy is silent.
There are no words to describe days like this,
when we’re just meant to hold each other as
tightly as we can, like we have never hurt,
until tomorrow, saturated and awaiting the slow,
glimmering brevity of sunsets.
Being a nurse by profession, I have always loved medicine-related TV shows. I used to be addicted by Grey’s Anatomy. But after Derek died, it feels like it all went downhill after that. I have seen them grow old right before my eyes – 14 seasons! Wow!
Then after that was The Good Doctor. I think I saw a Korean TV series like that, though I don’t know if it was lifted from that or just similar all together.
Then this – The Resident. If you’re wondering where you saw the Indian doctor, that’s Manish Dayal, the guy from Viceroy’s House. All the other leading actors have already been seen in previous TV series.
It’s the usual work-related and relationship drama peppered by medical cases they’re trying to solve. Nothing new.
Writing has always been
a clandestine affair for me.
Today, I showed him everything
I’ve kept sacred in my heart.
I’m glad he was pleased.
I know this because he laid me down
and pressed his critique into my
skin, and returned my words to me
by mouth, and kissed the tips of my
fingers in gratitude, thanking me
for finding one more way to love him.
*I rarely show my writing to anyone in real life that I know, I don’t want them asking too many questions about that which I am not prepared to share.
For #juneinspiration hosted by the lovely @alura_inspires and I.
You are whichever wolf you feed.
Because sadness was a glutton,
her love and her kindness,
her gratitude and her hope,
they’re all starving, all withered.
She has paid enough tribute to sadness.
So she holds up her hands to the wolf
that would be joy, if she let it, and
offered what’s left of her heart.
As sadness silently salivates,
she walks with head held high,
determined to break ground.
for she is walking with wolves.
For #bymewombchallenge hosted by @bymewomb
For #juneinspiration hosted by the lovely @alura_inspires and I
He’s not a poet.
He doesn’t know
how to say things