heaviest boots.

I REBLOGGED TO THE WRONG BLOG ALL DAY TODAY I’M SO SORRY YOU GUYS I DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE UNTIL NOW.

Stupid mobile app.

Edit: It’s all fixed now, sorry to whoever’s actively following for the writing (out of all 25 of you)

Sometimes life leaves little bruises on your hipbones,
tiny fingerprints caught in life’s surprises,
and sometimes you’re too weak to get up from bed.
Some days running water is static echoing in your head,
comfort in noise, arms wrapping you up tight.
Nothing leaves you more sore than
being told you’re not important enough.
And sometimes you miss your old friends so much it blinds you
tangled in the old strings connecting you
to people who once loved you back.
Nowadays it’s getting easier to run,
though there’s tension in the places that know
you are sprinting with nowhere to go.

Sitting in the corner of a cafe
that I haunt all the time,
thinking,
“I hate this place.”
And I am wondering if I said what
I needed to say, but
somehow,
I never say what’s right.

And I need to get rid of this feeling, the
dirt inside my lungs.
But I will never try hard enough.

People seem to come and go and yet
I still feel the aches that were left
when I left you all behind, started fresh.
But there is still a stale taste in my mouth,
lingering,
I can never let it go.

And it is almost June but where I am the
sun doesn’t shine enough and it’s
beginning to feel like a day
that will never end.

So I’m breathing in the rain
that never stops drizzling,
praying
I’m still good enough to save.

My heart is a house
where your love can stay.
And in every closet you can
store your secrets.
It is built on a firm foundation,
so rest assured,
my heart will not cave in on you.

And hopefully you can make its bed
your favourite place,
your hideout,
a blanket fort in the middle of December.
I will keep it warm for you.

And you can always listen to
the music from the beat of my heart,
the sound of the tide caressing the shore.

And it is 10:52am and I am writing
love poems to no one.
But some day, someone will take
this vacant house
and make it their home.

(This is part of an essay I wrote for my Intro to Women’s Studies class.)

On one of the first sunny days in March,
the scissors came out with the sun
and by the time the sun had set
my long black locks were gone.
As my hair fell away in that chair
I took steps to acceptance.
No longer hiding underneath dark curtains
I bore myself to the world around me.
Glory in my newborn unique femininity but
that was not what people expected to see.
Though most returned with a smile, one ventured
“Why did you do that??”
My answer was simple enough.

 I don’t have to be who you want me to be.
I can’t fit into the box you made for me.
Not normal for the norm,
straight as an arrow, but missing a fletch—
all in all I am not the doll you want me to be.
I am not a medal to hang up in your home,
I am not meant to stay there alone,
I am more than a body,
I do not want to be any man’s mannequin,
and my soul lays in wait
to be set aflame.

And I’m waiting for the day in which I can
be with a man but not be owned by a man
and I’ve been saving my lips
for someone worthy of it
and maybe that’s a little strange but
romance is a show and I’ve gone off its script.
I write my own lines
to keep it simple.

In the end all that matters
is that I am who I am
and I’ve known it, always.
And it may not look like
what you see in magazines or on TV
but I am a woman in this patriarchy.
My life will run these hetero lines regardless
of what anyone perceives.

I want us to be 
the sun snuggling up to the clouds:
comfortable, but cold.
And my bones long to be united with yours;
your name rests heavy on my sternum.
We can lift each other up,
both glowing faces of the moon,
cycling through seasons of
warm and wet.

Every morning I try to squeeze myself smaller.
As if pressing on my hips will make them less massive,
Or if pinching my stomach will make it disappear.
And some evenings I try to make myself stronger,
But I’m learning that I will never be your anchor,
Never your safety net,
Never kept, only recycled.
And days like these are heavy.
But each night I struggle into bed and
I send little pieces of my heart to you all,
Sealed with a whisper;
Hoping for you to be fine,
Wishing for me to be better,
Praying for you to love me back for once.

Drinking cold tea out of a nice mug,
Sinking into that self-deprecating feeling again,
Reading about how my skin colour is wrong,
Attributing the poor situations to myself.
Spelling everything wrong, even
Criticising myself for something so petty.

And I will listen to music all dedicated
to You for hours,
But somehow I will never
feel good
enough.
But maybe I won’t have to.

The sun came out early this year.
It tricked the chirping birds,
families with pets and kids,
people in their “summer clothes.”
But worst of all,
it deceived the cherry trees.
They shyly opened their bright faces to the world outside
and were met with a wonderful view.
In anticipation they grew lush
in the most perfect pink, with
a divine scent.
And I’ve never seen nature so sanguine.
But like a beautiful dream
the sun faded,
shading its warm face with clouds.
The rain and cold came,
bringing water droplets too heavy for delicate petals,
and now only the leaves remain.

I want to talk to you,
but I fear I have nothing to say.
And I guess the thing is,
I’m tired of pretending to be interesting
or interested.
But I’m a Jerry in the sense
that I long for human contact
as I sit alone in my room,
writing poetry,
at 9:46 on a Friday night
with the voices shouting next door
surrounding me on all sides.
And I’m not a Jerry in the sense that
I don’t want to invade your personal space,
push you off your comfort bench,
or die tonight.
So I will continue to sit alone
in my room, writing poetry
at 9:48 on a Friday night,
and for every night of the rest of my life.