And I know I’m not perfect. But I believe I was meant to be.
Buddy WakefieldI no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.
Buddy WakefieldI have realized that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it.
That we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it.
On the face of her phone
Wileen programs a message to herself
so that when the alarm clock rings
the screen flashes:
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
For some people
happiness
it's just a reduction in suffering.
Jordan.
Jordan tattoos the words
FORGIVE ME
in thick black letters
down the inside of his arm
so that when he looks at his wrist
he will remember not to hate himself so much.
What he keeps forgetting
is that there is life after survival.
Step into this experience
with the goose bumps
in your heartbeat
This is an apology letter to the both of us for how long it took me to let things go.
Buddy WakefieldWe can stick anything into the fog
and make it look like a ghost
but tonight
let us not become tragedies.
We are not funeral homes
with propane tanks in our windows,
lookin’ like cemeteries.
Cemeteries are just the Earth’s way of not letting go.
Let go.
Tonight
let’s turn our silly wrists so far backwards
the razor blades in our pencil tips
can’t get a good angle on all that beauty inside.
Step into this
with your airplane parts.
Move forward
and repeat after me with your heart:
“I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hated myself.”
Make love to me
like you know I am better
than the worst thing I ever did.
Go slow.
I’m new to this.
But I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop
without jumping.
I have realized
that the moon
did not have to be full for us to love it,
that we are not tragedies
stranded here beneath it,
that if my heart
really broke
every time I fell from love
I’d be able to offer you confetti by now.
But hearts don’t break,
y’all,
they bruise and get better.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.
Stichwörter: love suicide unrequited-love
There are massive stacks of bad choices in my backyard.
Haven't finished cleaning the place up
but I'm workin' on it
and clearly I have not yet reached enlightenment
for more than a fleeting moment
but I'm tryin'
and I found somethin' here I want ya to have.
It's not much
just a story
but it's all I've got
so take it.
This is an apology letter to the both of us
for how long it took me to let things go.
It was not my intention to make such a
production of the emptiness between us
playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano
to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive.
It’s just that I coulda swore you had sung me a love song back there
and that you meant it
but I guess sometimes people just chew with their mouth open
so I ate ear plugs alive with my throat
hoping they’d get lodged deep enough inside the empty spots
that I wouldn’t have to hear you leaving
Stichwörter: poetry buddy-wakefield hurling-crowbirds-at-mockingbars
Listen, I’m not entirely comfortable being human.
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