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where does it go

April 7th
11:59 pm

strip me of my clothes
my anxieties
my pride
my sadness
tell me you love me.
when you have my heart clenched
between your
once-in-a-while smile,
tell me you still do.
tell me it never gets easier.

April 2nd
3:26 pm

i will never really find the wounds
you left.
I won’t go looking for them,

Because i know that the second i think
it’s time to heal,
you’ll be there again.

making me want to touch your hand.
making me want to save you.
making me want to keep you.

so when people stare at me
and say,
"with scars like that,
who’s ever gonna love her?”

i’ll think to myself,
"I don’t even feel them anymore."

April 2nd
2:42 pm

this is how to be a sixteen year old virgo:

1. get high with your taurian brother and over-analyze everything. Realize that while you’re articulating some of your troubles, he’s silent. Recognize that to your older brother, you are second best. Notice how he handcuffs himself to a bottle at night so he’ll stop thinking and go to sleep. Care more about everyone more than you do yourself.

2. Worry about a boy you used to love sleeping next to you,his pain drifting in and out with every content snore. Hes comfortable with you, and all you can do is worry about him.

3. Go to a party with your best friend and get drunk and then make out with her after taking off your tops. Let people take videos and be gossiped out through the halls on monday morning. Hello, Vixen, nice to meet you.

4. Isolate yourself from all those you adore. Call it “lonely”, call it “guarded”, call it “help me god i have done this to myself”.

5.Criticize the people around you in order to focus on them better. If you can have flaws, then goddamnit, they can too.

6.Lie in bed at night and think to yourself, (from beneath you glow-in-the-dark stars, your pokemon blanket, snuggled up with your stuffed unicorn)
“How beautifully chaotic it is, to be sixteen.”

March 28th
5:11 pm

Your beauty is
askewed by what feels like the
biggest ocean in this world.
Distant in more than one sense of the word.
You shoot me with your one-word arrows
they go right through my chest.
Clean, cut, handsome.
And as I count the holes in me,
wishing you’d just touch them,
I find out where I belong.
Pat Benetar said once that Love
is a battlefield.
Maybe she forgot to also explain
how we reenact a different World War
every night—
you, crawling into bed with me.
And my legs ache like I’ve been
standing for 23 years,
but you never came to bed.
Let Germany rejoice.
We’ve avoided a catastrophe.

March 28th
5:09 pm

i’ve been meaning to ask you all sorts of things.
things about lava lamps,
navigational skills, patience, ice cream.
mythology. museums. musicals.
i lay awake at night
wanting for you to be around to answer.
to hear me say, half-dreaming,
“i love you. i love you. i love you.
i think about you before i sleep.”

March 24th
3:26 pm

all i want in this life
is to wake up in the middle of the night
to find myself wrapped around you—
my bruised kneecaps against
the perfect hinge of your legs,
my chest cradling the brick in the small of your back—
and make sleepy love.
i want to wake up in the midst of a blizzard,
4 a.m coming down,
and ask you (softly) if you are awake
and receive only kisses
as an answer.
i wrote this for you.

March 24th
1:43 pm

would you like to sleep here
i miss you
can you come to my house three months from now
and help me rearrange my furniture
so i dont get terrified of everything
i like the way you reject me all the time
i like when you ignore me
it confirms the preconceived notion i have
that i am not important
thank you for your time
your 3 a.m. friend

March 24th
1:23 pm

i snap my hairtie against my wrist.

and stare at the redness. 

this doesn’t mean a lot to me.

i like when my skin looks paper thin,
like i could rip it open
with a whisper.

i run my fingers over the red welts

and think, carefully

“I feel nothing.

the brain inside my skull could fall out

26 seconds from now

& it would feel like a million years ago.”

and when i scratch my pen on the paper

it sounds like helicopters.

i lay my head on the carpet and 

push my face into the ground,

clench and unclench my fists 6 times,

and still feel nothing.

i run my fingers over the red welts.

i realize that before i was a girl,

i was a ghost.

i run my fingers over the red welts.

i have never known how to be near
to anything 
that isn’t burning.

i snap my hairtie against my wrist.

i run my fingers over the red welts.

i feel nothing.

March 10th
12:25 pm

the back of my neck is a thorn

a poem

a poem


poem by keegan crawford in everyday genius