June

She’s the kind of girl who leaves immediately after sex. It’s not so much to say that she crawls out of bed, but she rolls over and checks out getting lost inside her head, trying to forget all the shame and sweat poured into something that she would ultimately regret. And it isn’t because she isn’t capable of love but if I had to muster up an excuse I’d be willing to bet that it’s the way every other boy said it was the best she’d ever get. 

So she pushes on broken, making every step count but what she doesn’t realize is that stepping backward will never amount to anything more than the very least she could’ve ever hoped for. Because inside the shell she created and painted to look like a smile is a puzzle with half the pieces missing and the other half damaged, barely holding together and managing an image, not quite recognizable, of a girl who barely managed.

And though she’s only a few years older now, she’s a million years wiser. She writes the word love using more than syllable. She uses her heart as a cup as if it were fillable, storing every last word that’s been said to her as if they were willable. As if someone someday could cash in on her loss and use the things she’s bottled up as a self serving cross. But if you stopped to pay attention you’d see her eyes are gloss. There’s no life inside the damaged hide covering the broken bones making up a girl who died the first day she decided to lay down for him. And for him. And him, and so on. But she goes on. Until someone stops her to make her feel worth something, anything, she will go on.

Grace I

It’s funny how my memories of you can spill onto a piece of paper in a series of letters; foreign to the unlearned, yet just as beautiful.

But I scrawl them out on whatever sits in front of me, as if hesitating for one more second would erase you from my mind.
The shape of your bones drip with blue ink on a crumpled up newspaper that I’ve been meaning to throw away for weeks.

The curve of your smile and the softness in your eyes engraved in the floor at the bottom of the staircase after I lost the strength to climb them. Or maybe I lost the will to climb to an empty room.

I can see the curls of your hair dancing off your shoulders as you tiptoe across the room staining the couch with your favorite color of nail polish.

Your pale white skin and the constellations of freckles on your stomach defaces every mirror I’ve looked into because I’d rather see that than see the hallow eyes and sunken cheeks pretending to be me.

And there, chiseled into the mantle where the dust surrounded old picture frames, is the makeshift novel of how your sharp breaths pierce my ear when I plant my lips on your collar bone.

I can see your nimble hands unperched from your hips as they reach out for mine scribbled across the doorway from the day I thought I could leave, but just kept waiting for you to follow.

It’s funny how all of these memories of you can spill out and be just as beautiful.

Erica III: End

I made a list of all the words I should have said to you.
They turned into a book; the kind of book that you can read over and over, and still learn something new.
But there was a certain way the words looked to me every night.
They spelled out something sinister, and somehow never looked quite right.
They would stare me in the face and mock me for not understanding them.
And as soon as I’d start to figure it out, they would mix themselves up again.
The story never changes though.
It’s always the story of me and you, and all the things we’d never make it through.
And I guess somehow, before I even wrote it, I always knew.
I’ve memorized the lines but can’t quite figure out what to do.
When my arms reach out, grabbing nothing but air as if the emptiness is trying to give me a clue.
When I stop breathing to try and hear your heartbeat just once more, until my body starts to turn blue.
My God, what am I supposed to do when my sheets no longer smell like you?

For Her, Forgotten

She quietly died in a room where no one had bothered to change the calendar in for five years.
It was a decision she had made a few months before but never found the courage to go through with. That was largely in part of her never being alone.

Before then, I had left her side only once. It was something I deeply regretted but learned to forget over time.

I knew how much it hurt, but she said, “The heart heals because it’s made to take chances.” That never made me feel better, but it did give me a reason to breathe.

But by and by, the air grew thin until we found ourselves struggling to find enough for the both of us again. Or maybe she was just choosing not to take her share.

Fearing suffocation, or perhaps embracing the outcome more than she thought possible, she secluded herself to a small box to keep her safe from me. Or so I thought.

As the days passed, I couldn’t bear the stinging absence of her lips on mine. I couldn’t stand the sight of her not standing next to me, or the feeling of my fingers being able to touch in the void that her’s once filled.

So I found her there, her heart not quite healed but unable to break ever again.

Her lifeless lips with no intention to ever touch mine; her limp body with no means of standing next to me; her fingers unable to place themselves in the void they once filled.

She quietly died in a room where no one had even bothered to change the calendar in for five years.

Emilie I 

Kevin now has his own corner on Basic&Bipolar. Enjoy his beautiful words below, and under the menu option “It’s All Copacetic“.

I can hardly remember the way you tossed your hair; something I’ve studied on numerous occasions. I catch glimpses now and again as trees reach out and swing their branches in the wind. And the wind still carries your scent, following me everywhere I go, urging me to look back and see you standing there. But I still have trouble remembering the way you tossed your hair.

I can hardly relive the flashbacks of your lips pressing tightly together and melting away from mine only to tease; like a newly blossomed rosebud opening for the bees and then withering away the second it slips in. Then hunger ensues; hunger for your lips. But I still have trouble reliving those flashbacks.

I can hardly feel your hands. I imagine they would be lost in mine, our fingers intertwined like the mossy overhang on our front porch door. Our front door, it creaked slightly when you crept in, opening it slowly to soften the sound.

Oh, I can hardly recall the sound! The sound of your voice as it trembles beneath a whisper, forcing out those words. And I’m still holding onto those words. You said that if I left there’s no way you’d survive.

Then you left…so, are you still alive? I can hardly recall.

Erica II

 

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Kevin now has his own corner on Basic&Bipolar. Enjoy his beautiful words below, and under the menu option “It’s All Copacetic“.

I’ve memorized how many steps it takes to get to your room.

Not because I keep count, but because I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve walked that path.

I’ve learned to navigate through your house in the dark, tip toe dancing around every shadow and missing every loose floorboard for fear of waking the ghosts of our past.

Not because I’ve made enemies with them, but because they are no longer happy when I’m around.

Still, I make my way through obstacle courses of the pain and misery that comes with my having you, only to have you for one more night.

Not because I enjoy the sorrow, but because you’re worth the suffering.

I’ll create more of the ghosts that I keep putting to rest just to navigate your coasts and put my heart to the test.

I’ve taken so much more than I ever thought I could before for just one more night with my arms wrapped tight around the only girl to ever create and destroy my world.

And if ever faced with the question, I’d do it all over again.

Emily I

Poem II, from contributor Kevin Sullivan:

I woke up this morning to the sound of your feet touching the floor.

I pretended to be asleep, but you’ve always had a heavy step and I’ve always been a less than convincing liar.

You still left all the same; no goodbyes, no shame.

I got up as soon as the door closed. I set my bed on fire and forgot my mistakes.

I can’t blame myself for being weak when pitted against someone so strong. So I’ll keep making excuses night after night and keep making my bed of ashes.

I’ll welcome you back with open arms but turn my gaze to the floor because I can’t look you in the eye anymore.

My embrace will be as hollow as my I love you’s.

And you’ll go on forgetting you were ever wrong. You’ll go on thinking that everything is right in the world while I suffocate in my discontent.

This is the bed I’ve made; this is the bed I’ve burned; and this is the bed I’ll always crawl back into.


As always, your feedback is welcomed and appreciated. Thanks for reading, friends! 

B&B