Category: Poetry

Trembling Hands and Trembling Hearts

the humid air consumes your secrets
into tiny droplets I can almost see
I feel the weight of it clinging to my skin
condensing in the crease of my palms
as I cradle palpable trust with
trembling hands and trembling hearts

the past does not define us

change begins with coolness at my ankles
the breeze rising and intensifying
I throw my arms into the wind
acceptance written in warm hands
clasped and together

the storm no longer frightening

 

Love Is Overrated: A Quiet Rant

Love is watching your friend tremble as she whispers
the strength he has in his fists,
love is wiping her tears away, it is knowing she will stay.

Love is seeing her beat herself down for
caring just a percentage too much to leave,
it is the extra observations you make of him
after knowing the other side.

Love is wondering why despite the millions of
fish out there, I am still starving to death.
Love is the crippling defeat embodied in the waves
that keep me company.

I can’t recall when I realised fairytales do not exist, but I do know
love is the realisation that one does not need fish to live,
yet still treading the well-worn path down the next day.

Space

I did not realise how small I was until
I laid in a double bed.
The distance between my four limbs spanning
constellations yet I am still travelling,
trying to discover the end of time,
to say I am all that I am.

I told myself to stop writing love poems,
but dear god,
every time my pen sets to paper,
it’s all about eyes, and metaphors, quiet whispers
and how goddamn lonely this bed is.

And I’m thinking maybe someone somewhere
is trying to tell me something,
but the end of time is rather peaceful, and
there are black holes and meteors for the
spaces that I cannot reach.

True Love’s Kiss

I am waiting for your kiss.
I stand with my arms out stretched,
my feet firmly on the ground,
I am waiting for us to collide.

I can see the urge in your eyes,
you come barreling into my body
trying to find my lips,
I can taste your agony.

There are caresses on my arms,
a peck to my thighs;
as the desperation grows,
you grip stronger on my neck,
fingers like a clamp around my waist.

Your gaze turn accusing,
as if my lips got up and wandered away.
The blood from my nose is no accident.

You leave a kaleidoscope of bruises in your wake,
yet still I wait.
I am pain. I am patient.

On The Losing Side

Afterwards, I took down the curtains,
I heard vitamin D helps to
chase away the sadness but all I see
is my lone shadow swaying in a room too big.

Afterwards, I picked up a single bed off a stranger on gumtree,
another bed with someone else’s memories
because mine became intolerable.
He asked me why with all the kindness
a stranger can give, and
I responded with ‘renovation’ but he
does not understand.

Afterwards, with all the tears shed and all the removal gone,
I thought I’d get better but I just lost myself.

Lifeline

My mother has the softest hands,
I can still remember her gentle caresses
before hard labour carved its marks
on her fingertips, like a sharp reminder
of her existence, my existence,
our palms meeting to carry the flowing lifeline.

Your fists dwarf mine in comparison,
the length of your hands wrap around mine
to draw me home, entwining around my
lifeline more and more each day.

I am so young, I have the soft palms
and strong grasps of a toddler who is
still afraid of the hard tarmac beneath.
Your hands feel like safety but also
infinite darkness, and my mother is the
beacon lighting my way.

2015

In winter, the cold air froze the blood
flowing in my body, unable to move,
I waited for warmer climates to
defrost and begin.

Spring brought in wet kindling by
eager hearts with warm smiles, and
finally, a small fire reignited.
I marched on to the beat of fire crackling,
to the sound of a heart palpitating,
to any rhythm I could find,
desperate to keep one foot in front of the other.

The peak of summer heat engulfed me
and I urged for cooler water to drink,
but though I painted my walls blue to
stifle the thirst, there was no relief.
I returned to paper cranes, counting up the
wings spanning my room and
counting down the days to my departure
from the nest that no longer felt like home.

Autumn blew on the fainting fire until it
roared into life. I embraced happiness with
arms that forgot how to hold it, like a messy
lodger that suddenly decided to stay, merging
our belongings together without permission
like we were friends from long ago.
The fire left a trailing blaze of destruction on:
my bank account, my liver, the boys of my life,
while I looked on carelessly from the middle
of the dance floor.

When winter came again, I was prepared for the cold.
Armed with thick scarves and a real smile,
I made peace with the lodger, not realising
how empty this house was without him,
not realising how much I lost while full
of the desperation to be outside.

2015 in five words: happy, alive, certain, progress, aware