i took all my books out of the way

i made a path for you to walk into

but you send me cryptic messages

i can’t understand. i’m not that smart

i think in beats, rainbow schemes,

i want to finish writing this poem

before he gets here and breaks my

silence into too many questions

i avoid answering. i removed my

poems for you, made you walk

straight into my heart and pull

it apart with my own weakness.

i never should have trusted you

with that one secret, you haunt

me with it, pass it around my

air like a ball. you’re playing

with my vulnerability. i tell

you to fuck off instead of good

night and in the morning you

wonder why i left for work

so early and we don’t talk again

until the following day

where we start over and forget

the past. it’s what we call

staying married these days.

The hues of light around the anger

Every day is a blur of the one before

and the one before that

and the one happening now.

I am changing the date on my journal

to keep track. For a while there,

I stopped.

I felt darkness around the

days of the week and months.

I feel this abyss will never end.

I don’t know what will save me from

the days. Nothing really. My coffee is warm.

The longer I stare out my window

at my lilac tree, the colder it gets.

You wake up and want my attention

you make me coffee. You know how

I get weak when you speak my

language of love. It’s still a cloud

in my heart. It could be grey one

day, blue another, white, moving

silently and then you crack the mirror.

I’m out of my skin, I’m shedding

a new layer of your anger.

so I have to drag myself out of the earth

and walk on planks.

You want me

to love you and I do. In the way

I should not. I know better by now

but the clouds never leave, they hover

and expect me to be my best self.

I’m writing and spinning out of control

over hatred, you’re making me tired.

Let’s stay naked in bed

create our own clouds

dissipate the anger with our skin.

Even fantasy has holes

we refuse to mend.

Masks

everyone is wearing them now

before this pandemic we wouldn’t even know

the truth from the lies

how lovers should understand more

how lovers should never be bored

with each other. with their skin

yet here we are in masks worn thin

and we have not even left the house.

You’re on my mind, like a song that plays

a guitar that keeps bleeding.

a flower constantly blooming

all the impossible events

like skies that cry

words that matter.

You know what I mean

when I don’t mean it.

Yet you make me feel like a coccoon

stuck in one phase

or a glass butterfly

that never changes;

a gift from my birthday

you never wrapped up.

You should have done all the things

you meant to do.

not merely talk about them

drunk one night

that doesn’t count.

writing is

a rush of adrenaline

straight to the soul

whether you like to admit it

or not, drinking is the solution

to reality. guilty of feeling

too much for you. guilty

of loving too much of you.

all that is apparently true

is not. I know what it means

to feel your sting of jealousy

when you mean to be sweet

and delicious. It’s not me–

it’s you. You have it all wrong

when I promise nothing.

I can make you love on the

rocks

balance on your

bed with one foot.

all the tricks you

asked me to do

I didn’t even want them

all I want

is what you can’t give me.

Use me as a Motif

Listening to subscribed channels about loving myself

is probably more harmful than actually loving.

You can abandon people and they are still in the dark

even if I research the best methods of unloving someone

it can’t be done. Rooms wait for people to walk into

and as long as I wait for you, you can’t come in

to see me.  It’s fine.  I prefer it that way.  Death beds

are such beautiful places to end up in. Heaven

is a place you described once, while I wasn’t

in the room. I can see you there talking to her

and pretending I don’t exist. It’s fine. It’s not fine.

I’m absent from this part of the story.

You can use me up until I say no more. It’s coming.

That day you dread.  Death sucks up love at will.

You can go about your silence. It has no guilt.

Don’t wanna know

It’s been such a long time I haven’t seen your face

maybe you don’t believe in the same books anymore

or philosophers

or artist

or punctuation.

I see a garden stopped growing

journals overflowed with moss

I am giving up on this whole

we got so much time

because honestly, we don’t

time soaks us with truth

and keeps on creating death

to remind us

that we won’t live forever

even if you sing about it.

 

It’s been so long

Hello beautiful people,

 

It’s been too long since I wrote on my blog. I miss you guys. I will be back soon. Just a quick note to tell you I love you and I have missed you.

 

Chrissy x

‘Oh, Canada’ and ‘Patera II’ by Christina Strigas

Thank you for publishing my work!

Montréal Writes

Oh, Canada

Watching the sun rise is one of the most trusted things.
I’m old school. Old soul for shining love.
In Greece, the sunrise overlooked the ocean,
in Canada, the sunrise overlooked Park Ex. 

When I was eight,
I saw Greece in your eyes.
I understood what the word immigrant implied.
All the looks, questions,
Where were you born?
I’m Canadian. I’m Greek.
I’m Greek-Canadian.

I’m nowhere to be found.

I mostly feel like a sea animal—
Life,
hooked me;
it adored my Canadian skin, its delicacy
flapping my fins in the air.
Olive complexion, dark hair and eyes.
Oh, you look Greek or Italian.
You have an accent.                    

Did you know the ocean grave is so silent?
There is no grandiose ocean here.
Canada is civil. Makes no war.
Canada opens up its arms to immigrants like us.

View original post 475 more words

Love & Vodka a book of poetry for glass hearts

Thank you for this lovely review of my poetry book, LOVE & VODKA.

Reviews

Love & Vodka

a book of poetry for glass hearts

By Christina Strigas

172 pages

2016

Canada Cataloging in Publishing Data

ISBN: 978-0-99518653-8

Ms. Christina Strigas dedicates this book Love &
Vodka to all people who believe with their hearts and to angels in her daycare that
showed her the true meaning of a miracle. Poetry, to me the reader, is an art
form that produces emotion and stirs the pot of imagination, and I thought it
was poignant to mention that here.

Contained within this book are 88 total poems set up
in “chapter style” parts with beautiful and intriguing heading titles like:

“I loved you for a thousand years and missed you in
all of them”

and now I want to keep turning the pages.

As a reader and a writer myself I am feeling the
angst of this prolific poetry writer, as she explores with us the…

View original post 736 more words