Author: poetryfest

Love is more than this. Love is made
Of heart and trust. Your
Violence and your heart break cannot be contained. And so I must
Escape. To leave you behind me. Maybe
I got too trapped. Maybe I was wrong.
Stuck in this pit. Maybe I don’t deserve
Much more. But I will pick up my heart. I can carry it
On. I will be free from tears and free from
Restriction. My heart should not be like glass
Everyone deserves to be happy. No one deserves such a monster.
To think that such a person exists. It makes me feel sick.
Heartbreak is all you deserve.
Not that I care. I will now
Take to the sky.
High in the clouds,
I will find

LOVE POEMS BY
STEPHANIE

i’ve always questioned
why i can love so hard
but never be loved the same

i always felt to blame
that their eyes never lit up
like a flame
when they said my name

my heart
became scarred
by all the people
who found it too hard
to love me

i know
that the love
i feel
is stronger than gravity
but i wear it on the outside,
easy for someone to steal

and it repeatedly
gets stolen
until my eyes
are swollen
from crying
over the pain
of never being loved
in the way i love

i can never understand
why i express my love so grand
and they refuse to
even hold my hand,
why for every compliment i give
i only receive a demand,
why i give all i have
and they hurt me
to the point i can’t withstand

i love vulnerably
and am never met
with the same love;
even those who try
can’t even come
close
and it shows.

i feel so lonely
because i know
that it’s only
me
who can love
this fiercely
and i see it clearly
that i am merely
alone

I will love you until
my body turns to dust,
until my atoms break apart
and return to the world whence they came.

(Remember when you said
so casually, in between first and second period
that you would marry me?)

I will love you until I am a gust of wind,
a spray of salty brine,
a pinch of soil,
a lick of flame.

(A theoretical that ripped my world
wide open. Did you mean what you said?
Did my response leave you, too, in shock?)

I will love you until
I am one with the universe again
and even then,
I will still love you.

(I’d marry you too.)

Once upon a time,
In a fantasy world a away,
Stood a beautiful girl,
Innocent and sweet,
Taken from her perch
Far too soon.

As she fell in love,
She fell hard.
For a man that she thought could change.

As reality hit,
And times changed around her,
The man she hoped to change,
Fell short of expectations.
Leaving bruises and empty promises in his wake.

As time passed,
He promised her one more thing.
As she stood at the altar,
Her heart fluttered,
As her hope set in once more,
For the man she hoped she could change.

Alas, as time ticked by,
The girl stood alone,
As a tear fell upon her cheek,
Staining her white dress black.

The man she so hoped would change,
Failed to show on the day they were supposed to wed.
Leaving her heart bruised and empty,
And her life drained.

As time passed,
She continued to live,
Upon her perch once more,
Waiting for the perfect man,
To come and sweep her off her feet.

You? You’re a wicked thing
feline in pale wrappings
Wicked words you fling
lure me back to bring
the heart you are trapping

The scratches on my hide
are just enough to abide
I hope they won’t subside

Since despite your sharp claws
you never bat at flaws
your eyes dark and wide
meet mine and match my stride

Dear Young Joi,
Your body is not an apology…
Stop giving it away to anyone who tells you or tells you to feel sorry for or about yourself…

Your body is not a toy…
Stop allowing people to play with it as children do, without instruction or care until it is a broken thing, of no further interest to be tossed aside.

Your body is not a piece of furniture…
Don’t let just anyone or thing move you off your ground. Or let anyone recklessly toss their unambiguous laundry on top of you until they have time to deal with the mess they created… or your OCD forces you to clean it up on their behalf.. You are no one’s maid.

Your body is not taboo…
Don’t be afraid of it. Let yourself explore every inch of it’s terrain. Map it with your mind until it’s committed to muscle memory before you offer access to outsiders. Remember: THIS IS SPARTA!

Your body is not a sin…
Don’t let them shame you bout how much, how little you use it; whether it be used for your pleasure or purpose is your choice! And your right! Use it [or not] as you damn well please….

Your body is not a side dish [read sidepiece]….
Don’t let them overlook you as if you do or can not meet their needs, when they are malnourished. You are a main course, meant to be fawned over, appreciated and applauded for all the work it took to create your luscious beauty. Your deserve honor & gratitude for nourishment your provide.

Your body is not a secret…
Again, the choice to share it with others is yours and yours alone. Don’t allow them to silence your voice into a whisper, never to be heard. Don’t allow their words or actions to make you fold, be shrunken small enough to fit into a box and hidden away into a corner unknown…
In a world where you were meant to be known..
Where you were meant to shine
Where you were meant to exist
And all you gotta do to impress [or intimidate] is exist.

Are the jagged red grooves etched
across my skin, there because I
rake my fingernails along my
abdomen while I lie in bed at night,
trying to claw my way out of the body
I inherited?

Were these arms passed down to me
through generations of women who
came before me, starving and contorting
themselves to avoid judgmental glares
which bore into their bones until their
marrow was gifted to me?

Was I pressed, bleeding into a world,
from a body like mine, so I could
tear out my hair and dig at my pores
until my tissue collects to form a
crescent moon I’ll never be rid of?

When did I begin to hate my sisters,
since hating myself is nearly the same;
if she shares my body, my flaws,
must I loathe her with the same vigor?

Where can we flee to a place where
our flesh will be safe from those who
wish to harm or humiliate, where
the masses will love our brokenness?

Who can be trusted to claim us, and in
hatred does not mention the elephant in this
room whose name sounds like mine?

Will I strive daily until I am small enough
to fit into the silhouette made just for me?

Why do I resolve to disappear?

Blood drips from the seams of her pants which squeeze her thighs
Her ribs protrude and her skin flays
Her eyes bulge and blacken
Her hair turns to strands that resemble yarn
and patches of space leave people staring
Oh God she’s decaying
Her presence dissipates as her face thins
“I am here! I am living!”
Even though her heart is barely beating
“I’m grotesque. I’m macabre.”
Quite the opposite of what she wanted to be

I crave cravings;
The heaviness of hunger,
And the weight of losing years.
Feeling empty fills me up.
I’m never without a cup
Of liquid deception.
No one speaks about the hit
Of lying and hiding away,
Like a sugar rush;
A thing I’ve not had in years.
Feeling hollow, told I’m shallow,
Yet my emotions are deep.
Am I a tree trunk or a trench?
No type of media can portray
Such a mind in disarray.
Beneath the flurry lies a chance
To be a sage contributor.
If I can find my way back
Through the brush,
And pump myself full of
Enough false wisdom,
To see through the fog.
To reach into the haze
And pull out the key;
The “off” switch.
To plunge said revelation
Into the dark, twisting,
With hope, for light.
But when I see it, I spin.
Maybe my body does, too,
But at least it’s my head.
Perhaps I could go back
The way I came,
But it would be a different path.
Like Hansel and Gretel,
I lost my breadcrumbs.
And I’d have to count my steps
Along the way.

Everyone gets a turn at tag, but if you are
small, slow, as I was, you take little short bursts
and catch no one back, or run as a lottery of
‘maybe i just need to try hard’, only to be cut
short towards another child close, and again
failing. Recess ends unsatisfied and alone. I
surrendered my chance at proving myself to
attention that I rarely get, that was given freely
– squandered welfare, which leads to even less
faith in being able, which is like thinking when
short of breath, and likely led to it.
Sometimes, often after weeks or a month of
long work, my breath becomes shallow, my
lungs a small lipped jug that I can’t breathe to
the bottom of. Uncomfortably I stretch into the
tightness to scratch at the bottom. In bed I’ll lie
there thinking, becoming like in salt water,
supported by the bed, which becomes my torso.
I grab at thoughts as they whisper past and
through.
Always the darkness of the room is poor,
light pollutes all night: street lamps, alarms, I
am awake to dimness, in a still lake that grows
mold, and has the most evil bugs flying off. I
plunge my hands in, flailing about, touched by
the coolness of water slipping around my fingers
that are drawn out full of disease, which I then
put in my mouth