Things I'll tell you when you're older.The monsters
don't fit under beds
anymore

and neither
do we.

A letter to myself.
You're destroying yourself
and I love you.

Your arms are
barbed wire
and I love you.

You pull them
across your
cageribskin
and I love you.

You're a one and twenty year,
eight month old war and
nobody's a winner
because there's only
you in this skin.

I left you alone
but I love you.

I wrote you a poem
and I love you.

I'm full of you
and I love you.

A(nother) letter to myself.You have grown.

You are not ten years
old and silent.

You've found the words
and you have made them
your sword and your shield,

your battering ram against
the walls you built when you
were too afraid to live.

And I know that some days
you feel like letting go,
like falling.

That you wonder if it might
feel like flying if you spread your arms
and close your eyes and pretend you
aren't doing this to die.

You have stood on the edges
of rooftops and bridges
(To follow her, I know,
but you were not born to go this way.)
and you have climbed back down.

You will make it, my girl,
by the skin of your teet

You can't have all of me.I hope you'll understand,

I've parcelled my heart
up in postcards
and back-alley blow jobs
and I might
still want to kiss
other people and
touch other people
and love other people

but I'll never want to
come home to anyone else.

The deforestation of a wild thing.You tear the curtains down
and find that I am a funeral pyre in
full swing.

You learn that loneliness is nothing like
emptiness, but a burning forest.

Brightburnflames licking up my thighs and
taking with them the kisses you lay there,
and there and there.

Will my deforestation strip my skin back to
the taste of lovers old, their touches turned Midas-gold
along the expanse of new pink skin?

The curtains haven't burnt so you pin
them back up on my collarbone wings and slide
them closed to hide the damage.

I burn the way unwanted things burn (green wood damp bark),
I don't want to go but you've shut the fire in and my skin

The Pied Piper of Zolpidem.I've got a hole in my
middle where I've torn at my own
insecurities, looking
for a way out of this skin.

I feel like I'm splitting
down the middle and tearing at
the seams, like I'm too small
to keep the nightmares
at bay (away, away).

And my blood's whistling
a tune I've heard too many times
before, the pied piper
of zolpidem twisting through
my veins.

Headlights on the hillside,
don't leave me this way.

Things I'll tell you when you're older (3).You are not the
property of anyone but yourself,

don't let them teach
you otherwise.

A letter I'll never send.The letter I keep writing
to my children.

'My darlings,

I have never told you
that I once lost you to my
own sadness,

that your tiny flailing
fists once made me feel as if
the world was striking out
at me through you.

I used to feed you in
the bath tub, wondering if
perhaps I could let your
weight drag us under.

I still believe that it was
you who kept me afloat.

I keep writing this letter
to keep me calm, to keep me from
hating myself for ever thinking
of you as burdens.

And someday I want to tell you
that I once lost myself to
my own sadness, and that
it was you that kept
me here.'

If you know.If you know someone,
if you know

the way their shoulders might
slump with each dreadful minute
of their day,

don't ask them
for more time.

And if you know

how their words might dry up
with their smile and you're left
facing an empty well,

don't ask them
for more water.

If you know how
sometimes their hands will
shake with the effort it takes them
to face the day,

then let them know that
you know,

and that you'll stay.

You lo(i)ved inside my chest.We made love

(once, twice, and
I stopped counting the
bruises)

in the middle of winter
and pretended neither of us were
casualties when we collided,
a heart-on collision,
(precision incision).

I keep the room you rented
from me empty,

I don't think about you anymore,
but I don't think about you
anyless.

Insomnia.The sleep I'm not sleeping
cornered me behind the garden shed
and split its knuckles
on the sharper edges of my
teeth.

I think it was trying
to kill the restlessness
in me.

Lovers.They swallow
you whole and
then spit you
out in pieces,

teeth and
intestines on
tiled floors,

swearing blind
that this
is how you
love someone.

Damaged goods.Sometimes I tell them that
it's a birth defect,

that when they dragged
me from my mother's womb
they broke me,

that my mother left the hospital
with a cheque in hand to make up for
"the accident," of course.

Sometimes I tell them
that they said,
"she'll live,
but it'll hurt her."

Because I live and
it hurts me and I don't know
how else to say,

"I'm sad all the time
and I can't get out of bed some
days and I've considered that
not living might be
beneficial to my survival,"

and as they try to work
that out I'm heading for the door
with my head down and
my dignity scraping along on
the floor.

Honestly dishonest.I'd kissed you seventeen times before they tore me
away from the coffin.

This could be tragically romantic but I'm lying;
I wasn't allowed through the chapel doors.

Feb 20th.I’ve never liked the summer,

the heat stands on the pavement waving
like an old friend and the girls with freckles
all look like you;

their hair in thick braids down their backs
as they smoke their cigarettes and break my heart.

Browse More Like This

More from ~trembling-knees

--I've stood on the edge too many times
but you look at me and you know.

You know that the edge is still here,
waiting in the curve of my smile.

You know that I carry it with me,
that it's stuck like gum on my shoe.

Only the gum is a small boulder
and the weight of it keeps me grounded,
chained to the edge of that bridge.

Flight.
You jump from a building and
your heart jumps from a building.

You almost wonder which will hit
the ground first only Galileo
sorted that out for you.

(Though you're not entirely sure
how you remember that but you can't
remember how to love.)

Only you do wonder,
you wonder and you wonder
about what will happen to you
if your heart hits the ground
and starts running.

Scars.
"There are scars here,"
she said, and her face said
she loved them even though
she put them there.

"That's okay,"
he said, "I've got my own."
And the way he held her
wrists, loosely, said
he loved them too.

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Depression.

by ~trembling-knees, Dec 26, 2012, 4:49:44 AM
Literature / Poetry / Romantic / Post-Teen (Mature) / Free Verse

_{To be depressed is
to carry every unwashed thing
in your life in your
arms.

The dishes you
couldn't clean pile
up with your innards,
jostling for space
amongst the lungs you've
smoked black and the
heart you've loved
thin.

Your unwashed sheets
hang around your shoulders,
gathering dead skin cells and
catching hair you habitually
tear from your skull, a
nervous twitch you never
quite shook.

You wake up one morning
and find that your hands are
still stained with dirt
from that time you buried
your lover in the backyard,

wanting to let go
but discovering that letting
go feels a lot like
giving up and
you're not ready for
that yet,

but you will be.}

307

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Depression.by ~trembling-knees

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Submitted on: December 26, 2012
File Size: 943 bytes

Views: 307
Favourites: 38 (who?)
Comments: 15
Downloads: 2

~19Yuki97 Apr 4, 2013

wow, that perfectly describes it! The way you use the words, the way you put them together, amazing!

Good job!

*bloodawni Jan 31, 2013 Hobbyist General Artist

This is simply perfect. Thank you.

~trembling-knees Feb 19, 2013 General Artist

Thank you, and you're ever welcome

=Sammur-amat Jan 3, 2013 General Artist

i feel you, sweetheart <3

~trembling-knees Jan 3, 2013 General Artist

=Sammur-amat Jan 4, 2013 General Artist

*ohsostarryeyed Dec 29, 2012

letting go does feel like giving up
wow
that is probably going to set me up for a deep-thought-orchestra

~trembling-knees Jan 2, 2013 General Artist

Oh I love the deep-thought-orchestra, I've become quite a regular attendee~

*ohsostarryeyed Jan 6, 2013

we should listen to the melodies together!

*Hfeather53 Dec 27, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

"wanting to let go
but discovering that letting
go feels a lot like
giving up and
you're not ready for
that yet, "

you have such a wonderful way with words and raw emotion... <3

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Depression.

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Depression.by ~trembling-knees

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