Chunks. 02
basically, another compilation of poems from here and there.
You have to save yourself. You can’t rely on humanity with changing minds, morales, and motifs. You can only depend on your god given hands and will power that surges in your belly.
The light will not shine
I only feel your warm touch
I'll let you guide meA house as a being of its own. Bits and pieces of its previous inhabitants left behind literally and metaphorically. I am the house as much as it is its own being. One that teaches me a self-love like getting up to feed myself even when I don’t want to, vacuuming, sweeping, and even a mop similar to that of my own hygiene routine. Doing the dishes so as to not leave clutter and produce a habitable version of my space, to let the house breathe.
I see myself in my home: scratches on the paint when I change the old furniture for new, nail polish spilt on the carpet, the lost report cards and essays scattered in shelves and boxes. Pieces of me left behind and a story to be created by the next ones.
A rebellious spray of paint on the basement's concrete wall, Splotches of tea that stain the magazines in the bathroom.
Humans using their life to make a mark, to leave any kind if legacy.
Unused piece I wanted to include in [Show you a body]
I can’t help how I smile and gleam at things that remind me of her. bits and pieces that show me I’m still her. A little girl so curious about everybody and everything. She exists in the first morning light, in the seaweed in the sea, in the pleiades star cluster, in the springy patch of moss and in the sprinkles on my cake.
I meet myself in an open field. open hearts and open minds as reflections stare me down. seven-year-old me remarks on how much I look and sound like our mother. My eyes fall soft and wet as I scoop her up and spin her around. I squeeze her tight and shower her in slovenian endearments. She wipes my tears, makes me laugh, and keeps our souls close as our hearts touch.
I see my brother, in all his ages and forms. Another part of myself I never expected to see. some of him tears away and turns his back to me yet another part fawns over me like I used to. I put my little-self down and call her daughter. I press a kiss to his forehead and apologize for everything and anything.
I see fifteen-year-old me. He tells me I look well-adjusted and happier. No more rested but a different kind of tired. He asks me when it will end, eyebags, slouch and all. Yet, the moment it leaves his lips he retracts it, a barely feasible smile appears, and he opens his arms to me. He can see it through my eyes. He tells me he’s proud and that he loves me. ‘She’ll always be with you, yknow?’ And I burst.
The best time to smoke is on the wooden porch; soaked with past day rain under the shining stars and waning gibbous moon. Every light gleams a little brighter and I know my heart is close to yours.
So drunk I remembered your name
but forgot the hurt.
remembered your face
yet not the traces you left
Please.
stay right there.
Dump of poetry over the past few months. thoughts? prayers? anyway, Happy Spring equinox and blessed be!!!
words from the graveyard’s caretaker, Kaine 𖧧