The first time someone called me a poet
it was in the cramped back hallway of a party in early July
heat rising between our bodily spaces
sweat collecting at the base of my brow to keep anxiety at bay
I listen as someone who I could barely call an acquaintance describe me to a boy I just met:
“she is an amazing writer, trust me, she’s so cool”
As if me using metaphors for antidepressants
and words as bandages for wounds
was reason to make me worthy to get to know beyond my first name
to pin my feet onto a pedestal I didn’t ask to stand on to begin with
I press autopilot in my muscles,
mechanically flip my hair,
split my lips into a half-ass smile,
thrust my hand,
and let my laugh ring with the music.
Little does everyone know I am the broken jukebox
with a disappearing voice.

I hide behind love and at 19, I wrote “What High School History Taught Me”
It was for you
you, the NYU junior with a mouth that clung onto vowels
and whose fingertips could read the braille embedded in my skin
You loved chasing storms,
I was almost named after a hurricane,
and this was how we were born after Hurricane Sandy-
it was never a question how we found comfort in destruction
But I still remember telling you
that I wanted to love you forever even if you didn’t stay to find out
And ever since I spit that
men come to me looking for their taste of mystery
for their chance to be immortalized
They don’t know I only speak in train station
and everybody is always a few minutes too late
No one has gotten the chance to get too close
because it’s never romantic to fuck the girl who makes love to her own sadness every night

I’ve stopped seeing the fire in my poetry like most strangers do
because to them
my pain is pretty
my heartache is dressed in a bow so
they can all sleep better at night knowing
some 20 year old girl in California understands them
better than she understands herself.

I have been singing in a language I never fully understood
because I am the girl who attaches my reflection to a man
whose memory I still keep prisoner in my mind
and this is how I hide from myself
this is my disappearing act

This isn’t poetry anymore
and it hasn’t been for a long time
This is the sound of survival
This is my heart leaking gunpowder and discharging bullets
Right here
on this stage
is where I understand what it feels like to choke on the gas chamber of lost dreams
Right here
is a dusky New York City apartment
with a boy dressed in the mask of a man hunting me as prey
This stage is where I come home to after being at war with myself
This stage is my peace
my prayer for forgiveness once a week
Right here
is why friends from school don’t call me that much anymore
This stage
is why me and Joe broke up
This place
is why I don’t sit with my family at the dinner table no more
because why
Why share grace with those who can’t understand
how these lights I stand under make the full moon I need
to break my neck and howl at some nights

This is where I pluck the guitar strings of my throat to sing like a bluebird and slow dance with every ghost
This stage is the only place I can forklift
all the misunderstood out of my chest and force you to watch
and you
will still call it art
will still call it poetry

But this isn’t poetry anymore
it hasn’t been for a long time
is the sound of survival
is the sound of me using the inhale of night
just to make it to the exhale of morning.
Right here.
On this stage.
is where
and why

Disappearing Acts (After Alcatraz of Balloons by Miles Hodges)  (via th3gr0wnupchild)

stop falling in love with the idea of falling in love with me. stop building high pedestals for me to stand on and lashing out when my fingers slip before i reach the top.

because this isn’t movie night and i am not a blank screen for you to project your fantasies on. this isn’t kindergarten and i am not a black and white tracing for you to color between the lines.

i have intricacies and scars the likes of which you cannot imagine, i have perfections and flaws the likes of which you’ll never know, and i, i have a fiery rage within me that burns all night and day. that will not be doused with half promises and whispered platitudes.

and it’s the rage of a woman scorned.

x (via heysnapshot)

I am made from the abused son turned addict
and the daughter who
never knew affection from her father
I am from a house
where words are shot like
cannonballs to the chest
and clouds scream from eavesdropping
while raining violet blood every night

Here, these palms are caked
in psalms and gravel
from falling down in the backs
of Sunday School yards -
I gave up on God a long time ago-
Been to more funerals
than weddings
I learned how to speak
only in mouthfuls
of cement, of eulogies,
of flower bouquets left
on mossy tombstones
And I can still make my voice
sound like a violin bow
playing against the string
of your ears

I am a masquerade ball of
everyone else’s perception of me
I am a face full of teeth
gleaming like gated ivory castles,
leaving behind footprints of insecurities
I look at everyone
with more reverence than I
can give my own reflection
This hurt
This depression
a gaping hole
I am too small to fill
within myself
So I self remedy
cup my hands in
the seas of men
and drink from them
neglecting to realize
salt never quenches thirst

I do things like this
just to give my hands some purpose

Do you know what it feels like to
be made of so much going
but never gone?

You start wondering
what you need to do
to just get gone

This skin is merely a
fragile layer covering
a body made of knives
I am full of wounds
I am continually bleeding
and somehow I am still standing

Somehow, in all of this,
I still feel it some nights,
this swelling in my lungs saying:
It is here,
where there is still love
A sound that can be easily
drowned in the echoes
of a broken past

I have been lost in the
library of my body
letting men take
pieces of me to borrow
yet never give back
just so I can continue
hiding from myself
I am a highway of silence
unable to speak of how much
I still want to be able to give
all of me to someone
How I am ready to
break open the armor
I put myself into and
leak out softness

I know it is here
I have to remind myself
there has always been love
It is here
with iron fists
where I pry apart my
Hades lair ribs
Retrieve a pomegranate
in shaking hands and say,
“Consume me,
devour me,
desire me
This is my heart
with all its rotten seeds
Tell me,
will you kiss me even
when you’re stained scarlet
in all that is bad about me”

It is Here- K. Wagner (via th3gr0wnupchild)