It’s four something in the morning and I’ve started my day. No one needs for me to be awake at this hour. My oldest son will wake at seven to get ready for school. My youngest, will get up about then too or he might sleep an extra hour or so. Their dad does not have to leave for work at any set time. I do not have any place that demands my presence today. So why stay awake at four a.m. with only four hours of sleep under my eyelids? I do not trust myself to go back to sleep. I’ve been having nightmares, awful bloody intense nightmares. And I’ve been longing to be wrapped up in arms that love me. But, no arms like that live here. So if the nightmares return, I can pretend like he chose me, like he’s here for me, and let him hold me when he says, “come here” or I can be honest with myself and believe I am just a whore he keeps on the side because he knows I’ll never leave while I’ve still got no place to go. Maybe I shouldn’t write blog posts at four something in the morning, but isn’t this the time I’m most honest, the time where I’m not afraid to say the things that rip me apart? It’s almost five now, and the honesty is fading and I’m running out of words, which happens when I realize there aren’t enough words in me to heal all the wounds created by every other hour of the day but four a.m.
Do you ever wonder what would have happened
if we could have made it work?
If we really had tried everything?
We gave up too soon, I know that.
And I still wonder if it will be me and you
I have hope.
And I’ll always carry that hope,
in my backpack full of bricks,
that I’ll save because they’re ours
to build on.
I’m strong enough to carry more,
more than these bricks and more than my hope;
tell me everything and I’ll carry your tears
next to your joy.
I hope you wonder about me,
I hope you carry hope.
In reponse to
I hate your leaving footprints in the snow.
*I think I may have expanded this into a longer poem at some point, but I don’t know for sure. If I come across it, I will post and link hopefully.
Hi! It’s been a while. In case you didn’t know, my name is Bree, but previously I have kept that mostly hidden on here. I started this blog in 2013 and published two posts that year, neither of which exist anymore. Then I didn’t post again until I don’t remember when exactly, but that post doesn’t exist anymore either. But in January 2016, blogging here became kind of a regular thing and I published something between a hundred and a billion posts over the span of thirteen-ish months, only to drop off the radar again in February of 2017. I definitely didn’t stop writing, I just stopped sharing. I’m not gonna fill you in on my life, at least not right now, but I am gonna post my favorite poems from the blog hiatus. And I use the word poems lightly here, almost none of them have forms and some of them are so far out in left field I doubt anyone will catch them, but imma share anyways. So, hold on, this ride might get a bit crazy.
lies and lacewing bugs
all of our childhoods are shattered
when we grow
and we see our parents
were never who we thought
how can we be different
for our children
so we aren’t the first
to break their heart’s
the first to teach them distrust
Tell me about him.
He was sixteen once,
but then again, maybe he’s only ever been
He loves motorcycles.
Ink under skin, all over.
Vaguely remember owls,
the taste of tobacco on his lips.
The scent of bourbon
as he exhales into my hair.
Rough hands rest gently
A motorcycle accident,
I lived it a thousand times
before it ever happened.
“You hungry?” and “How are you?”
Whispers in the middle of the night
that keep holding on.
Promises to our children
that we’ll do the best we can
and then try to do better,
and those same promises
are for me too.
He’s twenty-five, a good man.
It’s like running in the wind and the cool night air.
And I can feel your body-heat between my thighs;
that’s how I know I could never ride with someone who didn’t love me.
The city lights look so beautiful,
and I’ve seen them before.
I’ve seen them before,
but not like this.
Every stop sign, the warmth of the engine escapes into my jacket.
Not everyone who rides dies.
And I guess that’s why
it’s not “ride and die,”
but “ride or die”
because could we ever really live
if motor oil didn’t flow thru our veins?
I wish there was a tape recorder
in my brain so I could capture every thought,
every line of this poem
written on the back of your bike,
terrified, safe, home
on the back of your bike,
bought on accident, bought on credit.
Contrast: the wind rips into me
uninvited, unwelcome, unwanted.
But who ever really wanted the wind?
Maybe the wind is the world’s breath,
reminding us we’re alive,
on the back of everything we’ve ever hated.
And I’m not in love with motorcycles,
just in love with a different part of you.
*NOTE: I wrote this poem sometime around midnight or 1 a.m., 15-ish hours later I was in a motorcycle accident, my very first accident. Do I still feel the same about motorcycles as I did as I wrote this poem? Of course.
Those who do not speak this language first often learn to use it more poetically.
I’m sorry you were lost and left behind
I’d pick you all up and make you
Into a sculpture if I wasn’t so lazy
My heart breaks for you
For your soft fingers
That will never be filled with flesh again
Your owners have gone on with their lives
They will not remember you
Instead they’ll buy another pair
Because that’s what they do
That’s what we all do
Lose something, we buy another
What will happen when the gloves are all gone?
No one ever loses a pair
Only one at a time
Except I do know someone
Who lost a pair, more than once
If hearts were like gloves, we’d all be broken
Maybe hearts are gloves, two are useful together, they make sense
One without the other will always just be lost.
The silver doe,
I want it tattooed
on my right forearm.
Of course “Always.”
It’s a nod to Severus’ love
but also my love
And deer earned a place
in my heart long ago,
when we moved
to a tiny little town
named for the skins
that men hung there.
But I’ve never seen
the animal on this mountain;
others say they have.
I saw them more often
in the city where we met,
at the school where we met.
So really this docile creature
intersected my soul
the house on Comanche Drive,
long before I knew
how Severus loved Lily,
long before I picked a tiny reindeer
to hang on a tiny tree,
long before I became
But now the world can know
and later they’ll know me
by the mark on my arm,
the Life Mark,
the Love Mark.