Physical Pain

I met you at a time when I felt lost

and all the physical pain

collided with my emotional state.

You were the last person in the room

to approach me, and the first to notice.

I told you a story about how lovers

were stuck between all the worlds

they created and you rolled your eyes at

me. Oh, God, you said, another poet.

I’ve never met another one, I said.

Don’t fall in love with him I told myself.

Although I knew I would be the first

to fall for your dark eyes before you

even noticed mine. They were

as dark as my thoughts. You’ll

break my heart and I’ll lose count

of all the ways you want to love me

and other stupid thoughts kept

pestering my brain. shutthefuckup my brain.

I just want to get over someone

so badly, you said.

Me too, I said because it didn’t sound

so pathetic as (well step right up handsome

I’m the one). It’s funny how my mind

says one thing and my mouth another

or my mind thinks one thing and I type another.

No one really knows me then.

They just think they do.

I went to the bathroom and you were gone.

I thought that was just perfect.

A perfect ending to an awful night.

I had concocted all these ideals

that you were  the one

and other such bullshit

but in the end

you were  another character in my poem

I never knew.

I scared you with my witch eyes for sure

and other such nonsensical thoughts

raged my brain

of why men leave me.

 

 

 

 

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A typewriter

I read a poem about you

I read a poem about me

it was the same poem.

I saw a typewriter I wanted

and now I am on my way

to select the one that got away.

I have been reading about Hadley

and Ernest

and all the love they had

for each other

and still it was never enough

for an artist’s heart.

It breaks differently and has no command

because all it wants to do

is feel

skin instead of paper

sheets instead of keyboards.

It feels so close when you write to me

but so far when I look away.

It makes me sad to feel the end of a novel

approach, to see you come closer

than a mirror.

I was called a loser and a genius

all in the same sentence

no one really gets the “me” in you.

I try hard to stay away from colouring books

and unoriginal art. I automatically play

your song when you leave.

I hate when you come back.

It makes me feel like we were meant

to be together. It echoes the voices

in my head that kiss me between

conversations. I mostly fall apart

alone, but once in a while

I have been known to cause scenes

and barge out of restaurants. I run fast

I eat quick, I smile softly. I aim to

please. Please everyone

but myself.

I aim to burn,

burn myself.

It is part of my DNA

I felt this at eight

twelve

twenty-one

thirty-three

forty-five

you know what I’m talking about

it’s a blockbuster moment,

it comes with being a writer

you really don’t want to hurt anyone

but in the end

everyone hates you.

 

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Up in the Tree

I remember this park

JFK, where I climbed the trees

and Paul kissed me.

I remember this lane

where I pissed half-naked

drunk and stoned once again.

I remember this club

where I met my husband

on one dollar shot nights

barely able to drive

outta the womb.

I remember this bus

where I met my friends

down Park avenue.

I keep on forgetting

that you don’t live here anymore.

I keep on forgetting

that you took my suitcase with you.

I keep on forgetting

you never replied to my letters.

But once in a while

I climb up that tree

old forty-seven year old me

remembering and forgetting

all of our first kisses.

Funny how,

every time I saw you

it was like the first time.

Funny how,

I did not recognize you

from the back anymore.

 

Vulnerable

It started off as a slow death

alone with my box of books

as I am alone with my paper and thoughts.

Rebecca read 1973 and cried

and now a complete stranger is in my poem.

What is your book about?

It’s a poetry book.

Oh.

 

It is funny to see how there are

so many people that love  poetry

but in reality

this is a farce

an assumption

for 21 books were sold

and a few underhanded

in some Greek style black market.

Oh well, this is the foundation of ancestors

somewhere inside me.

Are you Christina?

Yes, I am. 

Oh. 

 

Can you please dedicate the book

to the one that got away.

Can you please write Happy Birthday Aaron?

One k in Niki,

you learn more about yourself

through others,

you listen more when everyone talks.

 

I suppose not writing is my therapy as well

up until I cannot take how the words

block my vulnerability

annihilate my extensive research of self-publishers.

Freedom is being who you are

even when everyone thinks they know you

and you keep surprising them

with your vulnerability.

I keep it intact

and expose it

in selected poems.

 

I love to start over.

I thought it killed me

and for a while

I drank too much

and stopped writing

but I can never stop

now.

 

Every day I am a different person.