i think the way the sun shines on you
has nothing to do with the sun
but everything
to do with you.
–your magic
In the Middle
Once I was at the end of the love song
crying for years because it was over
before it even began. We were caught
loving the wrong person. I immersed
from my drowning and swam to the
beginning of the line. I sailed across
your poems and floated on your words.
You sent them to me by mail, on out-
dated postcards, you wrote them on
the back of my hand with your
fingertips. I sent you magic and
illusions with one needle on your
arm. We lived in a movie and
recited Shakespeare naked in bed.
You were not even close to being
who I thought you were. I was
too much for you to handle back
then, wanting to do everything
and doing absolutely nothing
about it. I climbed Mont-Royal
in heels and you laughed at
my absurdities. I was spontaneous
and explosive, until I wasn’t anymore.
I bent backwards on words
and the power of your hands.
Now I’m in the middle of something
that will change me forever.
I will never bet that girl again.
I have to be someone I thought
I would never be. Life throws you
these wicked curveballs
and I am catching them,
ready to be stuck here
hoping that it will not get
worse. All this hope
for songwriters and poets
but for a regular woman like me
it’s a waste of my time.
your magic
Discussion
I don’t fall into categories
I prefer to create them
make them shine on my skin
so only lovers with no thoughts
can see them. Leave chat groups
that are toxic for the soul and
create an affair with words
you adore. I discussed poetry
and words and how I have always
been writing, only now it has
controlled me, I can’t contain
it in a beer barrel anymore and
put a lock on it for happy hour.
I can’t shut it off and go to sleep.
I wake up with it and walk around
with these words on the tip
of my fingers and my tongue.
Here they are discussing the
way we move in and out of bed,
the way we talk, with respect
and patience. The way you ask
questions and wait for a reply.
No one ever cared for the same
reasons. Discussions of the soul
with no words are the ones
I cherish. The way we communicate
without words
that first brought us together
and will eventually tear us apart.
I can see the story, I can write
it, I can direct it, I can begin
and end it. I know how to
do it all
for I am a dreamer
and so are you.
A poem about your back
I wrote the five letters of your name
in cursive writing with my fingertips.
I wrote the rest of the poem
in my head. It never comes to me
in the moment. It comes after
in riptides and synonymous with
coffee drinks. It arrives at my front
gate and whispers how you made
me feel cherished and adored.
I wrote in my head, on your back,
I love you, for showing me
your eyes, your thoughts, your touch
for having me
in your life. It is not even the
hours that matter, but what you
do with the ones that do, with the
silence and the words. Nothing
is something. When you ask me
what am I thinking? I am thinking
about how I do not want time
to cheat me, but it seems to
never stop banging with truth.
I felt your closeness
inside me.
And even laying together under
the sheets with no sun
brought the heat of Venus
into our hearts.
New chapbook
Hey lovely souls of WordPress & bloggers,
I am so excited to announce that I have put together a chapbook and it will soon be released by a publishing company run by my poet friend Chris. I will slowly reveal the details as soon as I can. Just know, that my book is going to be one of the first released under this company and it brings me great joy to share with you some new poems that I practically wrote in forty-eight hours straight. Hardly ate, hardly slept. Wrote the words like waterfalls.
I am on the first draft right now, and I will be editing and working hard to create a chapbook for my readers. I dedicate this chapbook to all of you who read me and support me.
I want to thank you for reading and commenting on my work. Without you guys none of this would be possible. My passion is writing, and I have written books and I am still working on a novel…however poetry is closer to my heart than anything else. It is that instant downpour of emotions that comes out. Sometimes it’s not personal at all, it could be the news, a conversation I overheard, a dialogue, a word, all these inspire me and help me to write better.
Thank you for being here with me.
All my best,
Chrissy x
Hard
The hardest part of living is accepting your defeats
recognizing your accomplishments, taking care of a plant.
I am bad at all of the easy things and good at the hard shit.
I can take so much pain, you would think I was a punching bag.
I am made up of being a woman.
I am pure femininity. I know no other way to be
or live than by these thoughts and words.
It is not easy to step into the beauty and continuously fight off
the weeds that try to break through the soil.
I try to make it work. Sometimes I am the only one left
at three a.m looking around for the earth I was born in.
Every day changes me. Every love kills me. I loved you
with thirty years of need. I admit that I need you
and I am not that fine with driving on a highway for thirty minutes straight.
I say I’m sorry so often you’d think I made a thousand mistakes a day.
I am so weak and vulnerable at human frailty.
It seems that vulnerability is a weakness now
but it’s how I live
with the words under my blouse
bra, panties.
And my mom calls me and I stop everything
to pick up the phone
because I worry that one day
the phone will stop ringing.
What am I cooking? Where am I?
How did I sleep?
It’s hard to live with death
constantly on your mind,
it’s easy to write it
and frame it
sell it to the highest bidder.
I stopped waiting for people to apologize
pointless to be waiting on a full moon
when you know it passed.
My heart keeps cracking, freezing
warming up
pounding
it follows the arms of the clock
incessantly
listening to philosophers
free in its spirit
because no matter what faces me
I never give up on the ones I love.
Loving a writer
From my book Love & Vodka
The ticket
I said,
stop the car, I need to vomit.
What’s wrong?
Must be something I ate.
I ate words.
His words
for breakfast
lumch and a québécois supper.
I told the police officer.
I never drive down this fucking street.
I wanted to be thrown in jail
but she let me go. Who knew
that being a bitch really worked?
I can’t sleep well.
I feel like I can’t write anymore
and I fear my secrets have a way
of becoming my only company.
What do you think Simone would do?
Is everyone knocking on his door?
Why should I care?
The line must be long
intense with chatter.
I struggle with letting go
holding on too tight.
I kept chains and locks
for him
but he cut through them
with penstrokes, cockstrokes
brushstrokes, I made up words
with flair and desire.
The full moon is in my heart
beating inside my chest
where he once rested.
There is someone else for him
so many lovelies
all colors, nationalities,
pageant show beauties
all for him.
She has brand new shoes
and purses to match
his ego.
I stumble around bookshelves
wander through poetry sections
take a look
at legends and death
peeking under glass bottles
from the wrong side.
Miss, be careful out there, it’sslippery.
I thought it would be different this time.
I thought he could love me
for the right reasons
but a million poems
cannot make up
for all the lies.
I will stomp the grapes
write my name on the bottle
and dedicate
a book to him
so he could throw it out
and never know me again.
Drive carefully.
from my poetry book Love & Vodka
all the parts of me
i did not show you
were the ones
i wanted you
to notice.
-perception
