Anyone can write a poem
About the kind of love
That only happens
In romantic comedies.
But a real poet
Writes about what happens
After you've fallen.

He's a ghost  now.
His eyes are dull
his touch is feathery
his voice is the wind.
Every time I spoke
he drifted further
away.
So I learned to be silent
and cherish
the time that was left to be spent
until my wallet
was empty.

I wasn't aloud to  like myself.
Without permission.
                         "Do I feel pretty today?"
"No."
                          "Am I happy today?"
"No."
                           "You're hurting me."
"Some call it love."

I played my part well
until I opened my mouth that is.
                                    It always got me into trouble.
I'd cried on the inside so long
                                                  I was beginning to d
                                                               ­                        r
                                                             ­                            o
                                                               ­                              w
                                                               ­                                 n.

You said
               "Go away, I don't like you anymore."
"Your nose is too big."
                            "You laugh too loud."
            "You kiss with your eyes open."
He said.
So I left.
I closed my mouth.
I shut my eyes.
But my ****** nose
                    It's still too big.

He was always restless
and his foundations
never held.
He didn't know how
to love himself the way she did
so he remained wrapped
in the blanket of comfort
she provided
until her fleece
was no longer warm enough
to keep the cold
from engulfing him.

He wanted to be a man
But he was
Nothing more
Than a 19 year old boy
With buttons for eyes
And a claustrophobic soul.

They called her crazy
Because she didn't know
Her own name.
The pale blue dot
She lived upon
She was afraid
To call home.
On that Wednesday
In December
When it began to rain
Her lifeless finger
Pulled the trigger.
She doesn't whistle anymore.

You like me more when you're asleep.
I seem prettier through your closed eyelids.
My voice is more sing-songier over your snores.
My touch feels electric.
I'm as real as you want me to be.
I exist as long as you're sleeping.

Pixie stick kisses
And a sticky tongue.
Pigeon pointed toes
Curled in triumphant approval.

Buzzing eyes and flushed cheeks
Making a grand entrance
On your face.

Let's reenact
The age of innocence
We tossed out with
The trash so long ago.

She was the girl that hated being called cute
Because she felt cute
Was a word that should be reserved to describe puppies.

She was the girl that used her daddy issues
As an excuse to cling on
Too tightly to the ones she loved.

She was the  girl that could be read
Like a book.
Wearing her emotional spectrum
Right between her eyebrows
That were  overdue
For a waxing.

She was the girl that wore lipstick
Instead of gloss.
Any shade of red or pink would do.

She was the girl that tried too hard
To please everyone
And forgot herself.

She was quite the girl.
She was.

I want to be the girl
That makes you feel lucky
And all your guy friends jealous.

I want to be the girl
That cooks and cleans
In my highest pair of stilettos.

I want to be the girl
That can wear a one piece bathing suit
And still dominate your fantasies.

She spent her whole life dreaming. Everything and everyone she encountered told her
to stop. “It’s a waste of time” “It’s not healthy” “Grow up” they’d say. And eventually she
started to believe the things people said. She wanted big things - for herself and for
others, but it didn’t take long for her to realize the importance of settling. It made things
easier and she had the tendency to complicate them without even trying. She felt
isolated from the world just outside her door but she didn’t know how to change that or if
she even wanted to. The best things in life tend to waste away after a matter of
moments. They pass away as if they’d never existed. Maybe she’d imagined them all.
She began to condition herself to expect disappointment. It worked for a little while, but
hard as she tried to shield herself from the pains of everyday life - the bullet always
seem to find her. It always came, without fail and pierced her heart with little regard for
the repercussions. She longed for the day she would be good enough for the people
she loved. Maybe you had to earn it, and she hadn’t yet collected enough gold stars to
pick out of the treasure box.

I feel refreshed. I feel new. I feel alive and free. I feel hopeful and romantic and optimistic and grateful. I want to give my time, my energy, and everything in me. I want to care and love wholeheartedly. I feel these things with an overwhelming urgency and it's a flame that won't soon be doused. I have this new found hunger to do more than I ever aspired to before - and an emerging confidence to follow through. All I kept for myself from fear of vulnerability, failure, or loss - I now freely give to anyone who desires. Love is an action - a demonstration of sacrifice. I want to fully grasp this concept. I want it to define who I am. I shall live each moment as if it were to teach me how to further understand what most people often reduce to "a feeling". Love is not something that comes and goes as it pleases. Love stays. Love holds on. Love never dies. This I believe more now than ever.

I remember the precise moment I stopped loving him.
We had gone out to dinner.
I was just getting back from the lady's room.
He looked up at me and smiled.
His eyes, I noticed, were dead and lifeless.
Not even a dull glimmer of light remained.
I blinked
thinking eyes would appear in the two gaping holes in his face.
They only grew deeper.
He looked at me quizzically.
Perhaps something in my expression had given me away.
I sat down beside him
avoiding looking at what had once been a pair of chlorine blue eyes.
It was as if something had changed in the time it took me to use the restroom.
When I left everything was normal.
But when I came back he was no longer the man I loved.
I denied it for a while,
dismissing it as a feeling that would pass just like indigestion.
But it never did.
It only worsened.
An unexplainable bitterness began to build up inside me.
Today I looked through some old photos of us
and realized that I'd imagined those chlorine blue eyes of his
because he'd never had eyes of his own to begin with.
Funny howI was the one with the eyes and I was blind the whole time.
Maybe I should pluck my eyes out.

His touch was too eager.
Almost as if he was afraid
She would evaporate into thin air.
She wanted to.
But she laid there instead
as he murmured drunken slurs into her ear.
She could taste the bitter fluid on his tongue.
He never seemed to want her when he was sober anymore.
It made her feel utterly repulsive.
Was it her unsatisfactory performance
that had driven him to his alcoholism?
Or had her looks deteriorated so rapidly
that the thought of touching her was sickening?
Perhaps this is why his movements were always so rushed now.
He wanted to get it over with.
Maybe he no longer enjoyed it
but saw it as a right of passage he had worked so hard to earn
he felt obliged to indulge.
Frankly, she no longer cared
to know the answer to these questions.
She felt his body convulsing on top of her -
a sign that he was close.
So she closed her eyes
and clenched her jaw.
"It'll be over soon" she thought.

We lie still.
Unmoving.
Unchanging.
You're pulled under
by the current
and my lungs
fill with air.
You pull me
from the water
and watch as I float on.
You won't let me get to far
because you know
I can't swim.

Come undone.
Waste away.
Lie awake.
With me.

Don't speak.
Not a peep.
Be alone.
With me.

Kiss my knuckles.
Stroke my cheek.
Write a fairytale.
With me.

Death and dancing
In the night
Never ending
Until there is
Light.

I feel your breath
Against my ear
Whispering
Sweet nothings
I long to hear.
Filled with seduction
And burning desire
I lose myself within
Your fire.

Your lips
Are two pink marshmallows
I'd like to
Bite off and eat.
I undress you with
My eyes.
Now I'm hungry for more.
You're tongue
Is a sweet ****
That hollows
out my insides.
Your hands play
The invisible keyboard
On the small of my back.
I melt against
Your rock candy frame.
One taste of you
And I'm on a sugar high.

I saw you with her
Smiling that smile.
I’d love to wipe it off your face.
Is she better than me?
Freakier?
Weirder?
Funnier?
Cuter?
Don’t answer that.
You punched me right in the face…
So hard
That my ego
Gasped for breath.

My bed is my sanctuary.
Your voice is my song.
A murmuring melody
That rolls in with the dawn.
Sexed up hair
And cloudy eyes
All taking in
The hazy sunrise.
Pink cheeks flushed with pleasure
Heated bodies
Beyond all measure.
Give me dew drop kisses
All along my spine
The passion of your lips
Is truly divine.
Love me on Monday
To the weekend
And back.
My eyes are hungry
Its you they lack.
Curl up your toes
Inside your socks.
Your whispers seem loud
During our pillow talks.

To hear him speak is bliss,
To feel his touch is ecstasy,
To see his smile is heaven,
To smell him is a pleasure,
To taste him is a sin.

I guess I’m a liar.

I told them I would meet them at the fair at seven.
I told them I was on my way at eight.
But I was lying in his arms.

I laid there in between the sweaty sheets twirling the purity ring around on my finger. He was asleep in a few minutes. I rolled over on my side, clutching the sheets to my chest and let the tears fall soundlessly to my pillow. I was lying in bed with a thief. He’d taken my virtue. I could report it stolen, but who would return it?
I drew my legs to my chest, pulling myself into a ball. The tremors rolled through my body like thunder. Holding in the gasps that shrieked inside my chest caused a burning like sensation at the base of my throat.
In anger, I tossed back the sheets and sat up; letting my legs dangle over the side of the bed and onto the **** carpeted floor. I wiggled my toes as my legs swung back and forth. Instinctively my hands caressed my stomach. The tears returned once more, streaking down my face and dripping onto my bare thighs.
I looked down at the silver band on my ring finger. The silver band with the words: true love waits inscribed in loopy cursive. I pushed the finger into my mouth, wetting it with my tongue. I pulled it out and twisted it loose, sliding it off of my finger. I turned back towards him and threw into onto the bed as I stood.
Standing there before the full length mirror pulling my hair back into a pony tail I realized that the girl the mirror reflected had a face different from my own. She looked sad and bitter – two things I was in short supply of.

Then I smiled at her and she smiled back at me.

There I am.

It’s the way colors would taste if you could eat them. White would taste of contentment, yellow of happiness, purple of infatuation, red of passion, and pink would taste of endearment. Pick your poison; they’ll all be the death of you in the end.
It’s the way it smells when it first begins to rain. Its aroma lingers like vanilla, fresh linen, or an open flame that’s sparks kiss your fingertips. It clings to your clothes and in your hair to be smelled by others around you. To some, this scent may be too strong.
It sounds like complete silence amidst a roaring thunder. It’s at a frequency only you can hear and comprehend. It’s a ringing in your ears that leaves them throbbing or the echo of voices when you’re submerged in water --- starting loud and progressively fading away with the sunlight that rests on the water’s horizon.
It’s the way butterfly kisses feel, faintly tickling your cheeks when they’re damp with fresh tears. Or the way your body shudders at the touch of a cold hand and your temperature elevates, leaving a numbness where fingers traced over your skin.
It’s the way a sea of grass looks when you’re crawling on your hands and knees. It’s the sight of two hands clasped with fingers intertwined. It’s what causes your eyes to widen when you see the expression that lingers on her face when she thinks you’re not looking. The look that says all that can’t be spoken with words.
It’s all the power that lies within that four letter, one syllable word. The word that redefines every one of your five senses. ..
Love.
Love may be like a lot of things, but it’s not like falling. I never fully understood the expression “falling in love” --- probably because it isn’t accurate, and doesn’t make sense. Falling is what people do on a daily basis --- love is when someone catches you.

October 3, 2012 10:49pm

It’s a sensual process.
Watching him paint.
But today I’m his subject, and there’s no talking. He likes it completely silent when he works. He talks about his paints like they’re a person, his brushes – a fine wine, and his canvas – a beautiful lady. He’s the kind of person that has a mind so complex that after a five minute conversation with him you’d just assume he’s dumb, or extremely high.
He says he can taste color. Sometimes I think I’m dating an eight year old. Then my eyes roll over his body, and I remember why I put up with it. When my eyes get to his waist he makes a hand gesture, signaling me to look at him. He wanted this painting to be profile. He’s very persistent about keeping eye contact. He says that the muse is as much the artist as the painter. They’re both part of the process. I open my mouth to say something, but he puts a finger to his lips and shakes his head. I scowl at him from behind wisps of my unruly curls. He smiles. He loves when I pout.
I’m wearing nothing but an oversized, tacky Bill Cosby sweater and a pair of his grey boxer-briefs. I’m sticky. I can feel the sweat dripping down my back. He’s been at it for an hour now. I’m uncomfortable, cranky, and tired. He says It’s ****. He says I look better when I’m all grungy.
The cat curls up in my lap. He looks up from his canvas and frowns. He walks over to where I am on the couch and shoos the cat away. He walks back over to his canvas. It’s so large, he can nearly hide behind it. That’s saying quite a bit considering his large frame that stands as a whopping six feet and two inches.
Sometimes I think he enjoys painting more than he enjoys physical intimacy with me. When I see the way he looks at them – the paint, the brushes, the canvas – the way he speaks to them – the way he touches them. I envy them. What I wouldn’t give for him to caress me so gently. To whisper so sweetly. To love me so tenderly. My heart aches.
His fingers are on the canvas. He’s smearing the paint. He pushes his hair back from his brow and gets some blue across his forehead. There’s yellow on the bridge of his nose, and green on his left cheek. If I could taste color, I’m sure he’d taste divine.
He finally drops his brush against the easel, steps away, and smiles – admiring his work.  I stand and he waves me over. I look at it. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous even. But it’s not me. The girl in the picture is radiant. She’s flawless. She’s happy. She’s what he wished he saw when he looked at me.
We’re all just somebody’s muse I guess.
I wish I were the one behind the canvas, instead of the one on it.