September Love, Page 2

They tell me love is something

  I have to claw my way out of

  Breaking through bone, tearing through skin

  Stripping myself of everything

  in this final show of my devotion to you

  my everything—the only thing left I can give you

  I can give you—give you up

  April Fool

  We came together in July, clung to one another like leaves to a tree, everything golden before the fall. My love was a bird feathering her nest, spring in my heart, perched on a branch, singing. Your love was a question that never found an answer—still hasn’t. I held on for as long as I could until I was stripped bare of everything you thought you wanted, and you couldn’t look at me the way you used to. Do you think what sparked between us was love—or just another beautiful trick of the light? I was your April fool—just three months shy of a year with you. Arms open and waiting, waiting for the seaside promise of summer, never once doubting it would come.

  A Poem Comes

  This was a poem that came to me

  the way anything good comes

  Like a comet that swings back around

  or a recipe you reconstruct

  from a childhood memory

  The lens with which you peer through

  all blurred and sentimental

  It came to me through the

  lifelong wonder I’ve held

  of the way words will unravel

  if you let them, as though they

  are creating these sentient worlds

  entirely on their own

  The Gift

  It was a crisp, bright day as I walked to my apartment, wanting nothing more than I had. By the threshold, a man twelve paces in front suddenly stopped—bent down to pick something up. With his back to me, he inspected it carefully, then slipped it into his pocket. I wondered what it was that lay twelve steps down the pavement, some small luminous gift from the sky. I thought about this strange and mysterious offering, what it could be, and how it had almost been mine.

  If You Didn’t

  If you didn’t know me

  you would see me as they do

  believe the lies they tell

  about me were true

  If you didn’t know me

  you wouldn’t want to know me—

  I would never be

  the one for you

  And you wouldn’t be sorry

  for missing what you never knew

  If you didn’t know me—

  only, my love, you do

  Endless Thirst

  You are at once a sea full of saltwater, and the endless thirst scratching the back of my throat.

  Diorama

  Tell me about your life, they say

  Do you really want to know about me?

  Not the meticulous shopfront of my life

  the grinning dolls in the window

  forever youthful propped up with pills

  The surgeon’s scalpel making me more

  what I’m supposed to be, less who I am

  Where I’m from there is a name

  for women like me

  Women who slip into the lives of others

  transient, even if they never leave

  Who give all they have to a man

  and thank him for the privilege

  Do you really want to hear about the raised eyebrows

  the humiliation of being seen as less than I am

  the desperation of proving myself at every party

  where someone needs to say in colorful tones

  oh, she is someone because if I wasn’t

  then I’d just be another eye roll

  the absent shake of the head

  women grasping the hands of their husbands

  a little tighter when I’m in close proximity

  I tell them about my life by the sea

  the idyllic writer’s life, the bohemian glitz

  of never having to sing for my supper

  lying around in bed all day in my pajamas

  petting cats, eating out of cereal boxes

  and the thing I want to say is the very thing I can’t

  Because this is not my life

  and I know it looks beautiful to you

  through the rose-tinted lens of poetry

  it looks beautiful to you when every light is on

  and the shades are up.

  It looks beautiful to you with my head thrown back

  easy laughter spilling from my mouth

  my arms wrapped around a man

  solely devoted to my happiness

  his fingers through my hair, watching me

  and you think, look at her

  so much love, so much life

  But only from the outside

  Only when someone’s looking in

  Fallen Idols

  I wish I could go back to a time when I only believed good things about you

  To past generations,

  You grew up in a time of tall trees and flowers. Stumbled through the dark, blameless and carefree. When you were at fault, you answered only to yourself. The pain you’ve caused others—now inconsequential—because no one was watching. You belong to a world of forgotten transgressions.

  Our generation blooms in the era of eyes and judgment. Where our mistakes are timestamped; our broken hearts livestreamed. But does this give you a right to throw stones at us? Self-growth is a long and winding road, and the ground we are treading is unlike any other. Please be patient with us. Be kind. Understand that we must lose our way, over and over, before we can find the best version of ourselves.

  Self-Blame

  I can’t deny this is all my fault. I have no one else to blame for my life falling to pieces. But let me ask you this: is pain any less valid when it is self-inflicted?

  Doesn’t it hurt just as much?

  Want

  What do you long for

  in your heart of hearts

  in this eruption of light

  between eons of dark

  What do you wish for

  at the cut of the cake

  A knife in your hand

  for a love you still ache

  You’ll get what you want

  if you’re willing to wait

  If not when you want it

  then when it’s too late

  Either Or

  There is so much anxiety in the beginning. So much hope and faith. But it’s all unnecessary. Once you give your heart away, it’s out of your hands. And there’s nothing you can do to change the fact that love is, or it isn’t. It will either work or it won’t.

  The Golden Rule

  Something I wish I had known from the beginning. If you are criticized for your writing, it means you are creating work of note. When you find yourself in a place where strangers are talking about you, keep creating the work that got you noticed. Do not alter your writing to appease your critics. It is natural to crave validation, especially from those who will never give it. To be a successful writer, you must ignore this instinct. This is the most critical lesson I have learned. You can’t please everyone, so don’t even try. This rule applies in life, in love, and especially in writing.

  Only Yours

  In this poem

  there is only one voice

  My voice and none other

  In every other poem

  there is only one other

  One voice other than mine

  There is only your voice and mine

  Hidden Love

  Just like you would hide a tree in a forest, I hide my love in a poem.

  Being an Artist

  I
recall those lonely nights

  pushing pixels on my screen

  craving pencil and paper

  the smear of paint

  beneath my fingertips

  the sound of paper sighing

  as I drew a line

  I dreamt of being an artist

  just enough to eat and live

  Just enough for the little things

  A cup of coffee with a friend

  on a park bench one sunny day

  A vase full of flowers

  I put on my shelf to admire

  or a book I can devour slowly

  over two weekends

  It was a lifetime ago

  when I thought of all the things

  I could do if only I didn’t

  have to chase the things I need

  And now here I am with more time

  than I had ever dreamt

  I pick up my pencil

  and nothing comes

  Of Years

  One day, love came to me. And love has remained with me since. How long was it, before I noticed the ebbing of years? Like a thief in the night, taking so little at a time—it seemed like hardly anything at all.

  To the Guy Who Claims My Poetry Was the Cause of His Break-up,

  It is astonishing to think that my words have the power to make someone fall out of love with you. That I have somehow been conspiring against you, even though up until this moment, I was blissfully unaware of your existence. Maybe you should ask yourself why she has found her self-worth in the words of others and not yours. Could it be, perhaps, that I’m not some grand puppet master like you believe, that my words are not a cold hard slap, but merely, a soft tap on the shoulder and the truth is—you’re just a shitty boyfriend?

  The World Is Mine

  Something imperceptible has shifted

  like a stone lodged between two worlds

  Shook loose with barely a sigh

  I lost my way for awhile

  but I am back where I belong

  Every sound and syllable trembles with meaning

  Words rearranging themselves for me

  In an ever-changing dance

  This is the end of an endless drought

  The rain streams down my cheeks

  I weep with joy

  Throw my hands in the air

  Everything is righting itself

  and the world is mine again

  Taking Time

  I need a day of nothing, a reprieve from the spinning merry-go-round of my life. Shrug it off like an old winter coat and hang it by the door. I need a day where I am not asked, wanted, or noticed. To know there is a wall of silence between me and everything else.

  Self-Control

  I am rewriting this

  to sound less

  like a complaint

  Lowering my voice

  so I won’t be dismissed

  I’ve long since learned

  what I say is second

  to how I say it

  Learned to level

  my voice, when I

  am screaming

  on the inside

  This is what it is

  to be a woman

  To learn how to

  swallow your pain

  To know how

  to bide your time

  Tongue-Tied

  I am a sentence strung together out of sequence, written for your tongue to untangle.

  No Poet

  There is no poet before me who is exactly as I am. No one will ever write the words I’ve written, think the thoughts I’ve thought. My poetry is a candle burning gently, an everlasting flame coaxing something tender, turning all toward love. So much of our world is drenched in anger. But love is our natural state of being. We may lose our way for awhile, but from love we have come and to love we will return.

  In a World Like That

  I don’t want to be in a relationship where I feel the constant need to explain myself. I don’t want to live in a world like that either.

  War

  Are you a man of peace? I ask you.

  You will see one day there is no such thing. In the end, your noble ideals will fall victim to circumstance. Something in your life will reveal with all certainty the ugly truth of men.

  And how it is only a question of time until, like every other man before you,

  (you will see)

  you will come face-to-face with that thing for which you will go to war.

  The Path of a Writer

  The path of a writer starts with an electric pulse, like a heartbeat. Barely perceptible and fragile as a newborn. Someone once told me writing is like panning for gold. But I think it is like stumbling on the ruins of a lost city, talking to its ghosts. Wandering its deserted streets with long-forgotten names.

  One day you will find your city and you will build it with one painstaking word after another. Only then will you know the path of a writer. Know what it is truly like to inhabit a world you have created, and how this world that began as a heartbeat, becomes a living, breathing thing.

  Only Once

  Love comes easy when you’re young

  and you can be forgiven for thinking

  love is like rain, and rain is relentless

  But at the end of your life—if ever

  you find yourself thinking about love

  then you never did see its return

  Because you can’t really comprehend

  not at first—that anything in this world

  that comes that easy, only comes once

  Before Love

  The night my world crashed into his, I belonged to no one. By the time I collapsed into bed, the sun was already on her way. My body throbbed to the phantom music ringing in my ears. My feet ached from dancing the whole night long. And I couldn’t stop smiling.

  That was the moment before everything.

  When I thought I was in love—when I had yet to feel the full force of it.

  Before You Leave

  Before you leave in the morning

  remember what you’ve left

  The girl you swore your heart to

  the dream you held as you slept

  Before the evening carries you

  to the dawn of another day

  think of how you’d miss her

  as you go on your way

  Before the sun goes down again

  and you resign yourself to fate

  know that it is in your hands

  before it gets too late

  Not You

  I don’t want the best thing to come too early in my life

  I hope with all my heart it wasn’t you

  Too Close

  I live my life between being loved

  or being known

  wishing the two were one

  To be loved is a wave rushing past

  the shoreline; filling every void

  To be known is an ache

  that never goes away

  Now that you love me, are you afraid

  to know me? Will distance tell you

  what your heart refuses to see?

  You’re too close to me, my love

  You’re missing everything

  A Woman

  The day you become a woman, they hand you a grenade. And you must choose between hurling or holding. Between want and expectation. Excise your desire, while you are hungry for everything. Give up your life for a version of you that isn’t you at all.

  Do not think twice about the imposition when they tell you, there is nothing worse than a fallen woman. Nothing worse than a woman who doesn’t know her place. You wil
l learn otherwise when you trade your truth for an ideal that no amount of good you do will ever be enough anyway.

  So, make up your own rules. Don’t be afraid to hurl, to fall, to get dirt on your face. Sweetheart, let this be your one glorious mess because in the end the only person you should answer to is yourself.

  After all, you are a woman,

  And long before they punish you for what you’ve done, they will punish you for what you are.

  Breaking

  I feel a crack inside—

  the sound of something breaking

  I know this feeling well

  I want to self-destruct

  Burn my whole life to the ground

  I’ve been here before

  I know how it goes

  This is the only way

  I know how to be

  There are no words left

  and nothing is growing

  Legacy

  You must believe it is your destiny to create beauty in this world. To shape your life with love and purpose, touch it ever so briefly with your weary hands and leave it a little more cherished than it was.

  Losing

  You are losing control

  You are losing yourself

  That man is your downfall

  your ticket to hell

  But his hands are like black magic

  This isn’t love but God

  it’s almost as good

  Like some hell-bent force

  that has kept you away

  from everything you want

  Swinging like a lead ball

  all the way back

  and it’s too much

  The secret is

  no one gets what they want

  without losing who they are

  The One After

  You’ve lived your whole life with me, haven’t you, my love? Yet I don’t think you’ve truly seen me once. I am a projection of the girl who hurt you, a conduit of the pain she caused. After all this time, I am still being punished simply for being the one who came after.

  Like It Was

  You’ve waited so long