For More Than Poetry

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Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Let's Make Love

The inconvenient truth is that I’m a hopeless romantic. 
An insane, 
poetry writing, 
long dress wearing 
reckless hopeless romantic. 
The kind that finds a Nora Ephron film life affirming. 
And I’ve never seen a happy relationship in my life. 
The only kind of love I’ve ever witnessed is a glorified form of settling. 
But damn I want to love you with my every particle, 
every molecule and vein. 
dance without rhythm
and lay
skin to skin
scratch to scar
Because it never feels like falling
It always feels like skydiving. 
I’m up so high that as I soar downward 
I am breathing for the first time. 
So let me crash through the atmosphere
Crash on your couch. 
In your memories, into you 
so fast and so hard 
that that our love will be a crater 
the scientists will study, 
a pseudonatural wonder. 
Let’s make history. 
Let’s make love.

Sunday, February 1, 2015

An Explanation

Bryn scurries to class
Leaving me once again alone with
Bennett, the long term boyfriend
A sludge of mixed schedules, run-in and intos
and the fact he’s in love with my roommate
have drained all typical small talk for our
strangely large amount of private moments.

So how’s your love life, Ariel?

I guess we’ve come to this.

It’s ok. The usual.
Oh, you have one?

The accuracy of it’s statement makes me
unable to take insult to its subtext.

i like guys.
Tall damaged deep thinking guys
Who like skinny jeans
and ironic notes
and poetry
which i write.
and they read every line
inserting themselves between them
and sometimes they’re right
but usually i splice shards of sensations
with moments and men
fossilizing ephemeral feelings
that rarely fit anyone’s truth
even my own
the stew simmers
bubbling my blood vessels
and leaving my fingers clawing across my shell
because soon enough
they think the poems are about them
when they’re really about me
you doesn’t mean you
it’s just an energy
fleshed out air and atrial migraines
and when i rhyme to him
it’s either fictional
or about things
i’m not ready to admit to myself are true
so i write more
and they leave
and i write more
and they return
and i write more
and they yell at me
and i keep writing
until there are no echoes of boys or syllables left
just a giant X
crammed in crimson across this love corpse
you're asking me to describe
but i keep tripping
over subtle stubble and unsilenced sensitivity
hoping that one day
i will plummet so hard
that my pencil shatters
leaving me with something more than material.

I don’t think a lot of people have that problem.

Me neither.


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