commitment [0r lack thereof]

commitment [0r lack thereof]

she doesn’t want a boyfriend

“I don’t need anymore friends…”

she’s done sleeping with strangers,

letting undeserving boys into

underused covers.

he’s not like any of the previous ones

especially the last.

white like a glass of milk,

stark against the memory of the bitterness of almond and chocolates.

he sees your impulses as harmful.

he might be right.

Anxious all day after talking all night,

nose bleed upon awakening from troubled dreams

.Hiding your phone under your bed

so you won’t be tempted to say something that can’t be unsaid over text.

“I thought I was over this shit.”

 

 

 

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chocolate

chocolate

seven days,

mouths moving constantly to kiss and to talk,

you are just so new to me.

I have never been with anyone so sweet,

so kind, so nice.

Someone who holds me tight,

who gives without being asked to,

who wants to meet my friends,

who wants to hold my hand at a party,

who wants to be mine,

who stares at me with chocolate eyes and asks if he can be mine

and if I could please be his, just for a little while.

he is mine and I am his but I’m not used to belonging to someone

it just feels so new.

the artist is gone, part II

the artist is gone, part II

a year since my grandmother’s passing

these mercenary words cannot hold

all of the feelings that I contain about this date

they do not carry the weight of my grandfather’s tears

my brother’s sobs.

they cannot hold all of my guilt and grief,

the lifting of a great burden off of my father’s face.

The artist is gone,

but I know what she would think about the mercenary words

that I repeatedly have to sputter out and sell to my friends and professors,

words that are like swords, for defense against enemies that are unseen

but unemotional.

The artist is gone,

but I know she is inside of me,

and it is the oddest feeling,

tracing her handwriting,

learning from the words she wrote years and years before,

when she is sitting in front of me in an urn.

The artist is gone,

but her paintings,

her prolific collection remain in our homes,

on the wall of my apartment next year, in my future showroom.

The artist is gone,

but I look like her,

in a way that is uncanny,

my face is a tessellation of hers at my age.

Her clothes quietly exist in my closet,

and I wear them feeling my grandmother’s hands on my shoulders

guiding me with our shared fashion sense.

Her thoughts about being an artist,

tracing her handwriting,

tell me how to be my own artist,

because she was truly her own.

I love you, Grandma Judy.

of age/ twenty/ two years.

of age/ twenty/ two years.

I turned twenty recently,

in the past,

I would be “of age.”

No debutante, am I.

I don’t feel more adult than I did

a week ago,

but looking back, I know I am.

two years ago

this blog began as

a place to

vent my spleen,

show my poor, lacerated teenage heart

to an anonymous and unknown audience.

Unbeknownst to you readers, I am more adult now.

Two years ago,

or even a year ago,

I would agonize over text messages to boys who ultimately did not matter,

composing them scores of love and affection that could never be reasonably returned.

Now I agonize over emails to recruiters,

and currently I am more anxious about

gaining a job this summer and a lease for next fall

than my nonexistent lovers.

I loved the balloons,

they were perfect when I chose them at 17, when I turned 18, and still good

when flew into 19.

19.

Brick wall, mountain to climb.

Window to jump through,

doors to lock.

Chances to take,

friends to make.

People to meet,

hands to shake,

hands to hold.

Felt abject terror,

love, grief, and compassion

after I turned 19.

Good bye 19.

I turned 20 recently.

Thank you for reading Poems by her.

Today is the two-year anniversary of its birth,

and I want to say thank you, whether you are a first time reader

or have followed me through the rollercoaster of absences and depression and pure joy and poems.

Thank you!

wet and cold

wet and cold

it’s raining outside and

the ground is hot

but the air is cold.

he didn’t want to see me anymore,

“this has been fun

but not what I was looking for,”

he said.

that was a week ago,

when the ground was cold and the air was colder

but the world was without water,

so no frozen fragments fell.

I guess he did not enjoy the lemon drops,

or seeing me naked and bear.

the condom broke, he pulled the ripcord.

It’s raining outside,

I’m cold but it’s warm inside.

It is bright and warm and welcoming inside,

don’t worry I am fine.

unexpected lemons

unexpected lemons

lemons that I didn’t expect

occurred this weekend,

sweet and sour with Everclear.

poorly poured margarita mix,

swaying on my feet not quite sick.

You grab my hand, we might have danced;

then all I remember is tongue in my cheek,

lips shifting and margarita mix

that suddenly wasn’t so bad.

Lemons that I didn’t expect

occurred this weekend.

i went home alone, i had an 8 am class the next day.

I’m a good girl (during the day).

the rest of the weekend i cannot say the same.

i didn’t expect for the lemons to be sweet.

So far no sour aftertaste.

I forgot how much I

missed the feeling of

another body on

top of my

body.

Lemons I didn’t expect to receive,

were graciously given this weekend.

I thanked him for his gift quite kindly.

lemons so surprisingly sweet,

unexpected, but right.