poetry

you

you

hold my hand

over the table and

i trace freckles like they will

spell out

some way to reach

your heart.

the skin of your palm

is rough and cool and

your fingers

swallow mine;

skin the color of

hot cocoa before

it is stirred against

my own.

and I wish I could kiss

the bridge of your nose

and rest my chapped

lips on your brow,

but I am too scared

to say a word

so we leave as strangers

in faded pastels

on a muted backdrop

that we will both soon forget.

poetry

weekend

today is saturday,

another in a chain

of saturdays stretching on,

linked, pulling, fragile–

today is saturday,

but I am tired of it.

each second passes,

each minute, each

hour changes me

and I am afraid of the

thousands

of saturdays

I have yet to live.

who will I be when I wake up

tomorrow?

my saturdays are finite

but yours are limited

and we’ve never really

been able to breathe

together.

poetry

#45

he says

“your body is not your own”

though in different words

so maybe I’ll miss it

and stay silent.

he says

“your mind is not your own”

though in different words

so maybe I won’t understand

and be quiet.

he says

“your life is not your own”

though in different words

so maybe I won’t stand up

and fight.

he says that I am

broken, that I am

useless, that I am

nothing, that I am

unworthy, that I am

insignificant, that I am

stupid, that I am

annoying, that I am

nothing at all

to him.

he smothers my words

with small, sweaty hands

and spews nonsense

in its place.

he will not listen

as our world falls apart.

he will not listen

as I am denied love.

he will not listen

as children are shamed.

he will not listen

as lives are smothered.

he will not listen

to the words we scream

in the gaps between his

hatred,

and I am terrified

that so many

just

can’t

hear.