pomes

puppet;

Some-
One called me “skinny girl
With the red hair,” and
I felt proud
To be defined by my fire
And my lack of matter –
My lack of matter –
My lack of space –
I am what I am
Not, Continue reading “puppet;”

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pomes

bath;

And when I’m in a tub of my own
Vanilla-scented filth, hugging
My thighs & scraping my knees
With my teeth – I am happy.
When I am biting at my flesh,
Feeling my spine stretch
Like a mountain – when I am
Bone and war, when gravity
Pulls my nose towards the water,
And I am a threshold between
Microclimate – hot & cold bumps of real-life skin –
When nothing matters,
When the rolls of flesh don’t matter,
The prickle-hairs don’t matter,
The goosebumps, the blotches of red and white –
I am a mountain wrapped round my thighs,
And I love my body.
And I want no one
To share this moment with me.

-s.f. (2014)

pomes

degrade

Sadness to the point of incoherency.
Sadness to the point of physiological degrade,
The point of “Where am I, why am I,
I don’t want to be.”
I don’t want to be.
To the point of stopping and starting,
Stopping and
Starting,
In the middle of thoughts and words
And Continue reading “degrade”

pomes

this self

I remember this self.
This self is a lover, is kind,
Is forever apologizing
For existing in the way it does,
Causing the pain it did;
This self is a lover, a fire,
But not wild; collected and contained
In a brick prison,
Thawing your frozen toes
When Winter bites at your bones.
It isn’t easy.
This self was not easy.
This self is constantly questioning its worth,
Because for once,
Its worth matters to an outsider;
This self is a lover,
In love with the thought
Of your arms and your lips,
Your skin under its fingertips.
Your eyes, and your mind,
Are the finest treasures in this self’s life.
It isn’t easy.
Accepting that the former being,
A deity,
Has gone to rest – perhaps permanent –
And good riddance!
What a sad existence
To wish to be alone.
This self doesn’t want to be alone.
That goddess has resigned;
This self wants to give,
To love,
And to be alive.

-s.f. (2016)

pomes

to my past self;

To the sixteen-year-old on the couch:

Allow me to introduce you to yourself;
You’re twenty-two and finished college,
Months away from moving out, and
Everybody’s proud of you, and
You have gotten help.
The boy who yelled & threw your phone
Is sad and ugly and alone,
And you are everything you never knew
You wanted.
You will meet boys
Who will take buses and trains, cross seas in planes
To see you;
And you will hate them all.
Though you are much stronger now,
You’re still learning how to crawl;

And that is the most important thing.

Nothing really matters now
From when you were sixteen;
You’ll wake up on Sunday mornings
From vivid, lucid dreams;
Those thoughts might still scare you,
But you are tough.
You are smart.
And yes, you have a heart –
It’s in there, I swear,
Though the fire has flickered out,

Just know that things are looking up.

s.f. (2016)

pomes

compartments

A collection of small compartments,
Missed appointments,
Messages, voicemails,
Disappointed humans
With sharp fingers and tongues;
Say goodbye to feeling young.
Once the train leaves, it’s gone,
A minute late and it’s gone,
At least until the next one
In the next compartment
With more missed calls
And missed appointments,
Concerned therapists, worried parents,
No more excuses.
No more sorry’s.
All goodbyes, pale-white lies –
Smile like you’re having fun.
In a crowd of bodies, having fun,

(Keep breathing,)

Missing appointments
Because you’re “better”
In a new compartment,
Having fun, until it’s gone.
Just smile like you’re alive –

Keep trying,

Pounding your fists against the walls
Of each prison square.
Break them down
Until life is real and flows,
Ripples and dominoes,
And you are whole –
Not a collection
Of missed appointments
In small compartments,
A mosaic of pale-white.

Transition

From gray to gold,
Lackluster to bold,
Compartmentalized
To whole.

s.f. (8/26/17)