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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
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
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
kitestrings.you confessed that when you were little you would pull apart monarch butterflies because they were much too beautiful--
so beautiful that they made you feel uneasy.

(you always did call me the most beautiful thing you'd ever known.)

it's almost december now, and the only reason i wish you were here is so you could make snow angels and i could rip off their wings.

---

you wanted a kite for your birthday, so i got you one that was shaped like a bat and we took it to the beach, watched it crash into the surf over and over until it was bent and broken. i rescued it from the tide and surfaced dripping saltwater -- you told me i looked like t
glittering, struggling.i.

"i am going to make every person
around me as happy as i can,"
i bravely declare.

"you should get a job," you offer,
and i draw a heart on a whiskey
bottle and say that making people
happy is my new job.

"you should get a paying job,"
you clarify, and i fill the whiskey
bottle with glitter and kiss you
until it doesn't matter anymore.

you don't need money if you're
dead.

iii.

i tell you that i'm going to leave
because even if it hurts now, it will
eventually make you happy, and
you refuse to speak to me for
the rest of the night.

and here i thought i had
all of the answers.

v.

you joke about going to med scho
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
amor de lejos.you used to blow into my ear while i was
trying to fall asleep.

i'd laugh and pull off both of our shirts, kiss
you chest and ears and eyelids until neither
of us could breathe. afterwards you'd sleepily
call me your little snuggle puppy, curve your
body around mine, and just when you'd close
your eyes i'd laugh and blow into your ear.

we never used to have any change because
we'd go downtown and feed the parking meters
by hand, like they were curious metal monsters.
you could never resist helplessness, which is
probably why you love me.

i used to make up songs about your socks.
i used to rub your back in front of your pare
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
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
butterfly veinsshe picks the flower gingerly, not wanting to break it. she brings it slowly to her face, inhaling the sweetness, her brain going wild from the overpowering scent.

it brought back memories of ten thousand things, things that she wanted nothing more than to wipe from her thoughts forever, but refused to stop clinging to her mind like out-of-reach spiderwebs.

she lies amongst tulips, roses and lupines. they surround her, bending gently beneath her to form a cushioning bed. she decides she wants to lay on this bed forever.

butterflies and grasshoppers flit about, sometimes landing on her nose or fingertips, filling the room with the softest b
letters to a dead man.those words i wrote,
over and over again,
were never enough for me.
because three words on a piece of paper,
sealed in an envelope and put in a box,
don't really mean anything,
do they?

seal your heart in an envelope and ship it off to dreamland,
and hope it doesn't ever come back.

those dreams i told you
suspended above the world,
were mere shreds of my insanity.
because i never really know
what i think i know. and now
i really am alone.

a creamy blend of fiction and reality,
to smooth out all notions of pain.

i'm sorry.
i know that doesn't change anything,
but i am so sorry.
i wish there was something
i could do to chan
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
stop ruining autumn.listen:

fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.

listen:

two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves, who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.

and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."

listen:

on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged
compulsive liar.once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.

-

sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.

i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.

"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.

"why not?" i reply.

-

i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
dear you,i can't sleep. i can't stop thinking about you. about your voice, especially. i really love your voice. it calms me. it makes me feel at home.
i haven't felt at home in a long time. i feel more at home at other people's houses than at my own. maybe it's because it isn't really my house, we just rent. i hate my room. i hate this house.
your house is so beautiful. i was so, so happy when we drove to your house to get v for vendetta at like eight-thirty at night, and i got to see your house for the first time. it felt like summer. spontaneous. unplanned. free.
i can't wait for summer. it's going to be so much fun. we can spend every waking mo
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More from ~estallidos

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
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
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
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

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(Contains: sexual themes)

matched socks are not a pair.

:iconestallidos:

i.

you left me three voicemails:

the first told me how pretty
you thought i was in my socks
that didn't match and the second
was about you having a great time
and how you can't wait to see me
again and the third said that you
are thinking of me and would like
to hold my hand.

i saved only the first one, and only
for one month, which was how long
it took for you to fall in love with me.


ii.

you left me a daisy on my doorstep.

when i asked you why, you told me
it was because our love was beautiful
like a flower.  

"flowers die," i told you, and you
had the good grace to look ashamed.


iii.

you left me naked in your bed.

while you were at work i cleaned
out your fridge and went through
your sock drawer. i found your
journal and read about how my
hair smells and the xylophone
of my ribs and the time we had sex
at my parents house and left the door
open because we liked to feel like
we were getting away with it.

that night when you came home
i let you pull my hair tight in your
fist and while you whispered my
name i wondered how many other
girls you'd fucked and thought you'd
fallen in love with.


iv.

you left me little notes with hearts
drawn on them.

i tore one by mistake, and then i
tore them all up, cupped the pieces
in my hand, let them slip through
my fingers and flutter to the floor.

i wished you were enough to hold
onto but maybe you weren't.


v.

you left me outside the diner at three
in the morning and drove away.

when it began to rain, i used your
leather jacket to cover my head, but
my socks still got wet.

you came back for me and pulled me
into the car and cried as you drove.
"tell me you love me," you begged,
and i shook my head, shook the rain
from my hair, watched the headlights
glisten through the water beading on
the windshield. like diamonds. like
a kaleidoscope gone all wrong.


vi.

you left me three more voicemails.
the first told me you still love me
and don't understand what is going
on. the second said that if i couldn't
give you any straight answers, you
would leave me. the third asked me
if i still loved you.

three days later i picked up the phone
and dialed your number.

"hello?" you asked, voice trembling.

"look," i said, "the cherry trees are in
bloom."


vii.

you left me all alone with my
mismatched socks and you did
not look back.
:iconestallidos:
alternate title: they asked me why my socks don't match and i told them life is too short to worry about that.

alternate title: i held you so tenderly.

alternate title: maybe if you had held on, too.

alternate title: god, i am so sorry, please believe that i tried to love you with everything i had.

alternate title: everything i had was not enough for you.

alternate title: please.


sorry i am updating so much.
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:iconrjandersson:
~RJandersson Oct 15, 2012
I remember that I read this poem in 2009 (or) 2010. I've always thought about it from time to time. And the words of choise has inspired me. Today I wrote a poem with this one in my mind that I read two years ago.
Thank you for such an amazing text!
Reply
:iconbren-imgs-ok:
Mood: Affection ~Bren-imgs-ok Sep 4, 2012
Is this a true story? There's certainly enough emotion there
Reply
:iconoldfootnote:
*OldFootnote Aug 24, 2012
I have been reading poetry for thirty-nine years, all kinds of poetry, many different time frames and places. But a poem of such profound emotion as this one displays is a rare find indeed. I was torn between reading it slowly, to savor each line, or to read it quickly to reach its conclusion. I chose to read slowly as I would end up at the conclusion anyhow. Each stanza was achingly beautiful. I cannot say enough about this poem.
Reply
:iconestallidos:
~estallidos Sep 2, 2012  Professional Writer
thank you so, so much for reading it, and for the compliments. they are appreciated.
Reply
:iconkaeldra-1:
~Kaeldra-1 Jul 26, 2012
:heart:
Reply
:iconaverypleasinghi:
~averypleasinghi Jun 25, 2012  Student Artist
very beautiful hahaha
Reply
:icon914four:
*914four May 5, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
Well done, I'm impressed :-)
Reply
:iconkeewikiwi:
~KeewiKiwi May 4, 2012  Professional Traditional Artist
What does "Look, the cherry trees are in bloom" supposed to mean?

i'm bad at interpreting poetry but when i write it, it makes sense in my head just not in other people's.. anyways, someone answer please.
Reply
:icon914four:
*914four May 5, 2012  Hobbyist General Artist
A new begining
Reply
:iconmillie369:
Mood: Wow! ~millie369 May 4, 2012  Hobbyist Photographer
love this! made me cry. =*)
Reply
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