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Scars | Poems that Suck

Buried beneath the 
raw flesh of every scar 
there lies a story, a veiled 
truth manifested in the physical form. 

If you listen 
close enough they will
whisper, confessing our sins, 
our triumphs, our follies and, even, 
                                our secrets.
Posted on

Call me a Psychic | Poems that Suck

We'll chance upon each other, 
 some day or evening
  a long time from now. 

By then my heart will
 have scabbed over, but
  still the edges are tender. 

You'll be excited - "it's been
 so long!" - but I'll
  be full of dread, caution. 

I'll regard you coolly, just
 enough detachment to make
  you unsure, ill at ease.

I'll make some cutting remark, 
 veiled in subtlety, then
  excuse myself from your company. 

You'll mull the comment over, 
 repeating it in your
  mind, puzzling together its meaning.

And slowly, you'll reach the
 soul of it and
  know that I'm still bleeding. 

You'll watch me from across
 the room, and I'll 
  know by its focused heat,

But I'm too old and 
 too tired to play
  the games of young girls. 

You won't see me feigning
 laughter or pretending to 
  flirt with some random person.

I'll simply be me, as
  even keeled and placid
   as you knew I was. 

It will remind you of
 those quiet moments we
  shared, tangled in each other,

Doing nothing but marveling at
 the miracle of love,
  the wonder of eachother's breathing.

You'll then be in touch,
 and I'll hesitate but
  answer; no sense of preservation. 

You'll apologize for it all
 and I'll give you
  a halfhearted, watery kinda smile.

(Actions, of course, speak louder
 than words and I'm
  simply mirroring your past indifference.)

You'll realize too late, like
 they all do, that
  you made a huge mistake. 

But it'll make no difference
 to me because you
  had broken something inside me 

That day, way back, when
 I stared out of the
  window, watching a squirrel as 

You stood above me and
 recited a litany of
  why you didn't want me.

And maybe then you'll long
 for me the way
  I did those many months,

The wind blowing through the
 hollow in your chest,
  whistling past the ragged edges.

And then you'll understand, it
 dissolved that warm October
  as I sat in silence. 

You'll know it's too late
 for me, 
  for you, 
   for us. 

It's just now that you're catching up.
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Empath’s Eye | Poems that Suck

"Look at me," he murmured.
 So I did, choosing his left
  eye over the right.

Like I knew it would, 
 the pupil dilated, blossoming
  under my steady gaze.

There's never an option,
 I'm taken hostage by eyes
  and that's why I never look, see?

Now I saw him, stripped
 bare before me, the scars
 raw on his flesh. 

Yet, he never blinked, 
 never broke contact as I
  penetrated and saw it all. 

I admired his courage -
 I could never be that vulnerable -
  but also his stupidity.

After all, he didn't know
 what kind of woman I might be
  or what I could do with his scars.

Then again... 
 maybe he just wanted
  to be seen.
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Rumi | Poems that Suck

Rumi was really onto something -
 writing poems about God, who for
  all we know could be a figment of 
   our imagination, or a madness of spirit.
    The point is: when you love something intangible
     and invisible, it has no chance of ever breaking your heart.

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Brittle | Poems that Suck

You were frail in body while I
 was delicate in mind, yet we curled
  around and underneath each other trying
   to provide comfort to one another - because
                                       that's
                                       what
                                       empaths
                                       do.

You held me as I fell to pieces
 in your hands, mind ridden and soul
  overflowing with trauma, pain and anxiety.
   You held on until I stopped crumbling - not
                                           healed,
                                           but
                                           stable, 
                                           enough.

Then I held you, in your emaciated
 brittleness, all edges and angles, as
  you allowed yourself the space to dissolve
   in my hands, slipping through my fingers - like
                                              water
                                              down
                                              a
                                              drain.

Somehow we held each other up, 
 held each other together, just barely. 
  Maybe that's what two people do for
   one another; the simple kindness of - offering
                                         safety,
                                         compassion, 
                                           and
                                         companionship
                                               as we try to
                                                  weather our way
                                                     through the shitstorm.