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being in love.it's like when you were five, when your pet rabbit died
and you learned that nothing good lasts.

it's like the time you dropped him off at his house to watch tv
before you drove yourself to the emergency room, sobbing.

it's like the first time you saw your kindergarten teacher cry.

it's like ring around the rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes. ashes.

it's like when he went too far, and he said, "is this okay?"
and you said, "no," but it didn't matter.

it's like when he said, "but i want you."

it's like the number seven, or rubies.

it's like when you almost drowned in the pool in north carolina
and when you looked up through the

interstate 81.there's a metal star that is wasting away on a hill overlooking interstate 81. it blends in with the surrounding area; you can't really even see it unless you know it's there.
and no one does.
i like to think that it is a signboard from god, and i make tiny little prayers on it. my religion is in curling wires and burned out light bulbs, and my lord is the same colour as the sky and the treetops. honestly, i believe that rusting metal has as much a chance as anything for inspiring faith.

there's a deer lying broken on the side of the road. it's sprawled in a shallow ditch with its four legs splayed awkwardly, hooves plowing tiny furrows in

pray she doesn't knowhello,

i think i scream your name
in my sleep,
because my mother keeps
asking who you are.

she looks at me with knitted brows
and a hand halfway orbiting
my shoulder.
i think she is afraid to touch me,

and her eyes look a little funny
when she says your name-
it sounds so wrong, thick and congealed
as it spills from her tongue and
over her teeth.

i want to ask her what i've been saying-
have i been screaming?
murmuring?
sobbing?

i don't know if i should know,

but her half-painted pink fingernails
hover and tremble between us,

and i keep thinking that it is the
same for you and for me;

we are simply drowning and all of

dahlia girl.i used to let you backhand me across
the face because crying turned you on.

your palm stung and burned my cheeks
bright red, but it was strangely beautiful.
you called me your little dahlia, your little
candleflame, and kissed my jaw where
your fingers left treadmarks.

you said:
"love means making sacrifices."

i said nothing, just wiped away a few
premature tears and traced the fireworks
blooming on my face.

you used to fall asleep in the grass with
me, and we'd wake up with petals stuck
in our eyebrows and grass stains on our
lips. our lazy kisses tasted like rain.

i say:
"love means throwing handfuls of grass at
each ot

telling a sad story backwards-17.

it smells like grief and sterilized metal.

i climb into andrew’s bed, though the nurses have strictly forbidden it. he closes his eyes and holds me tightly, because he says when he can’t see me, it is easier to pretend i never happened to him.

15.

he pushes the cart aggressively down the aisle, pretending to mow over old ladies doing their sunday shopping.

"stop," i say giggling, lobbing a can of ravioli at him.

for a moment i think he simply didn't see me throw the can; it glances off his chest and falls to the floor, exploding in a pattern of red arrows. i don't notice his eyes rolling back in his head or the graceful wa

serbian mermaid.in five years i want to move to georgia
or serbia or atlantis and start a family,
name my children after odd numbers
and teach them russian lullabies and
the art of manipulating those you love.

in five years i want to marry you, but
i don't know if you like odd numbers,
or even if you like me all that much.
maybe you'd like me if i tell you
that i'm a mermaid, but i'm not
and you can always tell when i am lying.

in five years i want to be seventeen,
but wishes don't work like that.
i tried.

in five years i want to be on a plane
and i want the plane to crash
into the ocean and i want everyone
to be okay except me, but if i w

maybe, i'm a metaphor.it’s like i’m six years old again wrapping my fingers around someone else’s hand. it’s as if i’m lost and i don’t even care to be found. and it’s too bright out and the sun is sparking uncomfortably, igniting our bones under the skin. it’s like i’m sleeping on the sidewalk and it’s leaving indents against the side of my face and the backs of hands. but it won’t matter in the morning since the world is on fire. and all i am is a held breath that won’t put the flames out. or a rain cloud without the silver lining that will pour all this worry away.

it’s like i’m sixteen all

running.you tell me that everything has a time limit on it; friendships, days, moments, love. everything is limited, you say, so we might as well rush, run. because it's all going to end anyway, right?

so i started to notice the time stamps painted on your hands, the calendars written all over your heart. i started to wonder, how much time do we have left? how many more held hands, secrets, inside jokes, i love you's? how many more?

i wondered and ran,

ran through the forests without smelling the scent of after-rain. i ran on the darkened streets at midnight without noticing the streetlights, passing lit houses of friends and the sounds of laughte

you can't make them love you.He is beautiful, new, unexplored.  He has wanted to kiss her ever since they met one week ago and fell prey to helpless chemistry.

         “Don’t,” she says, moving her hands in a subconscious “yes” pattern along his arm as he rubs his cheek against hers. “You don’t even know my favourite colour.” The wind cuts through her thin jacket, and his chest is so warm.

         “Red,” he guesses, improbably correct. His ears are cold.

         “And h

paper cranes and picket fencesi am folding you one thousand paper cranes because it is all we have left.

legend says that if i fold one thousand paper cranes, i will get a wish. i could wish for a pair of iridescent wings or an ocean in a teacup or just to finally be happy again, but i don't want any of that--with every crane i fold i am imagining you. one crane for the circles under your eyes, one crane for your jutting ribs, one crane for every seizure.

i love you and you're dying and i will run out of paper trying to fold your broken pieces into birds.

-

you drew me a picture of us in the future.
our houses were next door to each other and a white picket fence sep

reason no. 8:thought he was asleep.
he always slept like that.
like a broken ragdoll,
no spine or all spine, could never tell which.

always kept wondering why poems
have little pictures painted on the
insides of their eggshells, acrylic or
gilded,

forever going on about how i
could turn your small bones into a
chain round my neck, or the way
your blood sounds like traffic hour in
your veins, or the incessant need
to encapsulate a star between
raw fingers;

always kept wondering
why it's said but never done.

blue lips and frostbite worn like what is worn
when naked- wearing broken words,
freckles on old skin, a dilapidated hairstyle,

trilobite.look:
don't ask me to prove to you that evolution is real,
because i lost the notebook with the proof written
out in pen. i could try to sum it up for you anyway,
about how i didn't used to love you and then one day
i did and how whales used to have legs.

also i was once a flower or a seven year old
and my hands didn't know how to hold yours
or how to draw sunsets and make sandcastles.

evolution was you one year ago saying i was perfect,
that i should never change myself for anyone.
now you say that you are trying to fix me,
which means that perfect things could always
be trying harder. and that's evolution.

i'm tired of my hair

ill-fitting hearts."Do you know why she's dying?"

"Do you?"

"Because I broke her heart. God, I feel so fucking bad about that."

"No she's stronger than most I know. She's dying because you told her to."

"What? No, that doesn't even make sense."

"Think about it. She would do anything, for you."

-

You were nineteen and fell for the girl with the ballet toes and unreliable heart. You were a robot, programed to say her name every time you were asked a question. And when you urged your feelings to a breaking point, you found her standing outside your door with an i-love-you note and a field of asymmetrical freckles. That was all you needed to get down on one

catharsis.one.

i was knocking at your door. it was
freezing cold, and the ice-rain got inside
my heart, and i was screaming please,
please, let me in. and i was knocking
at your door until my voice was
gone and my knuckles were bleeding

and you never even heard me.

two.

apparently you are a different person now. apparently you have new friends to laugh with; joke with; cry with; tell secrets to.

apparently i'm not one of those friends anymore, and this breaks my heart - not that i'd ever tell you this. apparently we are no longer major parts of each other's life anymore, although we promised each other we'd never drift apart.

i wonder if the

what is meant by playing deadthe house looks like helium. it is faded with cold as its body, thickets of slatted wood painted palely. shutters are closed eyelids, unbearable lightness to the miserly scene before them.

these streets are cobbled and winter-bleached, colours in hibernation save for three bodies of varying paleness lying slatternly in its centre.

bones compounded, salted twigs in white shades bent and broken; there is no blood, just an overwhelming taste of death.

who's that? a bloodless face murmurs from its position on the axis of the recumbent spine.

think his name's johnny, a nearby body whispers.

it's not, the broken limbs in question croaks.

the

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Riding BikesGoing off medication is like riding a bike.

The doctor holds tight to my handlebars and lowers my dosage. The training wheels are off, and oh hey, look at me go! It's like flying but not, and I'm doing so well but then there's a horrible accident and I'm somehow upside down at the bottom of the sea with both wheels still spinning.

"Help," I say, and my doctor pats my head, puts a band-aid on my knee, and writes a note on my chart.

I've balanced by myself for months at a time, but I always end up hitting a fucking tree or falling off a cliff or something equally catastrophic because I am a catastrophic person. Except that is an exaggeration

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masochist.by ~estallidos

Literature / Poetry / Romantic / General / Free Verse

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syllables i never wanted.
haiku suite.

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~Nefertiti0xx Mar 1, 2013

Eerily relatable.

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~spacecadet101 Sep 1, 2012

This is beautiful. I absolutely loved reading it. The sheer emotion just pours out of it.

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~estallidos Sep 2, 2012 Professional Writer

thank you so much <3

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~spacecadet101 Sep 2, 2012

You're welcome. [:

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~noxstalgie Jul 29, 2012

I added this poem to my favorites a long time ago. It's weird, but I collect things. Dreams, and notes, and songs for events that I know will happen in my life, and when they do happen. I have this metaphysical substance that I take, like medicine for the things that I know I can't change.

So thank you for sharing this.

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~sasunaru16 May 12, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

the ending is amazing <3

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~estallidos May 20, 2012 Professional Writer

thanks!

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~AlbinoApples May 4, 2012 Writer

Chills. You just gave me chills. _{(gotta check out your gallery now : ) your writing style is superb)} Words straight from my soul, really.

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~DecisiveIndecision Mar 31, 2012

one of the most beautiful things I have ever read. You inspire me to pick up writing once more.

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~estallidos Apr 1, 2012 Professional Writer

i'm so glad

the world always needs more writing.

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