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wisp-of-thought · 1 month
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Instead I say: Falasteen
Because I hope
That when the colonizer comes for me
Somebody says my name right in the eulogy
Like my mother intended
With all the history of my homeland
I hope in one final act of rebellion
I refuse to fit comfortable in their mouths
I hope these consonants cut their tongues
I hope they choke on these guttural vowels
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wisp-of-thought · 1 month
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I lost track of the wounds
In the end
The only one that mattered
Was the one you gave me
In the end
The only one that mattered
Was you
In the end
It was the betrayal that slaughtered me
Before the blood loss
When your eyes sliced into my soul
Puncturing the vital organ
I was dead before your blade parted flesh
Ghost before my body hit the ground
~
In the end
My final breath
An exhale of your name
That still tasted like home on the tounge
My blood forgetting to be afraid
In your familar palms
~
But if I am spirit
Why I am the one haunted?
By you
Or some part of you that perished
With me
Begging for mercy
I do not know how to grant you
~
And if you lived
Why did I find you
Haunting your own shell
When I returned to
Forgive you
~
~And Caeser Thinks: If Betrayal Is A Kiss, I am Glad I Tasted It Last From Your Lips
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wisp-of-thought · 7 months
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wisp-of-thought · 1 year
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In the end
When redemption comes for me
He looks so much
Like you
And is not what absolution has always been?
You
Coming back
To me
And in the space carved out for forgiveness 
He plants "I love you, still" instead
And is this not what mercy has always been?
Love where guilt once grew
Burying the hurt in an unmarked grave
A field of second chances blooming over it
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wisp-of-thought · 1 year
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And even now
When I think of you 
In mourning of us
It is her ghost
That haunts you 
While I wait my turn
To be remembered
For it has always been her
And the girl who wears her sheets of grief
This time
Until they grow tired of playing a dead thing
For you
And even after everything 
It is her ghost that you take to bed
And mine that lingers by the door
Watching
Wondering
Wanting
Forever
For I cannot even 
Haunt you
Better than
She
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wisp-of-thought · 1 year
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And I will always love you like you 
Are my first
And you will always love me like I
Fall somewhere inbetween 
The beginning and
The end 
And what can I do
But keep falling
Short 
of forever 
A memory that will not last
No matter how hard I try
To hurt you enough 
For the scars to linger
Even after I am gone
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wisp-of-thought · 1 year
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The doctor tells me I might have arthritis at 9 am on a wednesday in november 
My shoes are wet, my coat is soaked, my umbrella is broken 
I have to catch a bus in time for class 
In 20 minutes, 19 minutes, 18 minutes
18 minutes
18 minutes
18
The cold is seeping into my aching bones 
The doctor tells me I might have arthritis
But he does not believe the MRI results
He says I am only 18
18
He says it should be impossible
For my body to be is such a state of
Inevitable disrepair 
And this is all I have ever wanted
For someone to tell me that I am too young to be this old 
That all this ache belongs somewhere 
That I am allowed to hurt
And that they are going to heal me
The doctor tells me I might have arthritis
And there is nothing we can do 
Which is of course not exactly what he says 
He says here are our options
And i hear 
There is nothing we can do 
I hear
This body 
A broken record 
Only getting worse 
The song you once loved eventually
Unrecognizable 
It's surface covered in scar tissue that runs
Too deep
To love back to healing
But you remember 
You remember 
What it sounded like
When it was capable of beauty
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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And the darkness calls to me with all the names my mother said were too soft for me
The shadows think I am delicate and I let them, try to let them convince me too
That somewhere something may yet still think I am worthy of gentleness 
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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I am a wound
And the longing it will scar
I am the irony of the guilty begging for mercy before the end
And temptation to give it
The ache of dreaming of the redemption you will never let yourself have 
The agony of an artist without a muse
The desire that overcomes you when your center of gravity shifts on a precipice 
The reminder of how final an edge is
How peaceful the end
I am the nights when missing him is longest 
The false memory of his gentleness 
The phantom promise of what could have been if you let yourself be reduced to repentance 
The curiosity of what it would be like to part flesh and bone, to shed your skin and be reborn without this name
The fleeting hope these seams will split and the clock will stop and the mirrors will shatter 
I am poetic justice in all her cruel beauty 
I am the universe in all her lonely infinity
I am the forgiveness that comes for you when you are least worthy of mercy
Just because I can
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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You return for me
Once I've finally
Bled your name
Out my veins 
Sometimes there is grief
But most days there is only
The space in my heart
You left behind
Where nothing grows
Anymore
- somedays missing you is an ocean and somedays it is drought
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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My favourite Poet gets married
And I lament to my friend that there will be no more heartbreak poems
And is this not the kind of tragedy we all long for
The thing about art and
Artist
Is that they are confusing most of the time
Until you have lived the heartbreak of a muse
Until you have lost a child
Or a childhood
Until you have buried your mother
Or resurrected yourself
Until you have spent a summer drowning
In your own oceans
Until you have forgotten the colour of the sky
Or his skin
And maybe this is why I am so
Confused
Because I have not lived this heartbreak yet
But every one of her poems was about a lover lost
And I think of all the loss haunting her love
I think of all the ghost girls under their bed
I think of all the poetry she wrote about someone else
And I cannot understand it
~
He tells me that he loved her for six years
That she was the person that knew him best in the world
He still says her name like he may yet summon her ghost
The consonants getting caught in his teeth
I imagine he tastes her with every mouthful of promises he makes me
All the songs he sings me reminds him of her
I keep them all like scars
~
He says he loves me
And I try to believe him
But it is hard when
All I can imagine is how he would have loved her till the end
If he could have
- to the poems I never had the heart to finish because of you
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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I know
I will never 
Fill the craters
She left in your heart
And I know
When we are over
I will take nothing of you with me
But pieces of her void 
And you will have nothing to remember me by
But the memory 
Of how I could not love you 
Like she did
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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I am still forgiving myself
For the time I wasted
For the people I loved who did not love me back
And I knew
And I knew
And I am still forgiving myself for the staying
For keeping the loneliness 
In all the parts of me
I swore I'd never let it 
Touch
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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I grow old and wonder if writing poetry has always been this hard
I wonder what I wouldn't sacrifice for a muse
I would give my youth if I had any left to offer
The only thing I have ever wanted more than to be a writer
Is to be loved
But these days I wonder
If there is really a difference
For where do I exist if not between the lines of every poem I have never written
And if I do not write my story who will
And if I do not claw my metaphors into your tear ducts
Who will remember me
Who will remember me
- Hiatus
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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I wait for inspiration at the door step of my youth. But she has long forsaken the promises we carved into my childhood bedframe. And this is the abandonment of the muse. For there was a season when poetry herself wooed me into unfurling my untried fingers to her pen and for a moment she was encapsulated by the way I bled ink for her. How deep I was willing to tear myself to reach the sweetest similies. Capillaries and couplets. And she kept me. Until the metaphors melted into puddles of half remembered melodies. And she grew bored. I cannot recall which came first.
I always knew her gaze was fickle. Her favour easily shifted with the tilt of the light. And how easy it is to fall into shadow. How beautiful the canvas of the sky when closest to darkness, when teetering on the precipice of the end. I write to her still. Shove the love notes composed of subpar symphonies under the porch where she promised she would return for me. And what does poetry know but already rotting vows.
In some letters I miss her. And in some I ask her forgiveness. In some I bleed, and leave this offering to be unfound. I wring out the papers drenched in desperation, and ask her to hold me. One last time. I ask for a poem. And I use the letters to burn my past to ash. For perhaps the smell of smoke carries farther. Perhaps ash and charred memories, will linger longer than love.
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wisp-of-thought · 2 years
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Oh the blood I have shed
Oh the youth I have lost amongst the grief
And for who?
In hopes a river of sorrow,
Or a pathway of scars
Would lead love back
To the hollow parts of me
I carved out
To make room for the forgiveness
I deny myself?
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