rachelle's ramblings (certain poems may be triggering)

a hard habit to break
a former friend once commented
that she couldn’t believe how easily i
managed to manipulate my own emotions,
the way i could tell myself to feel something
and force it to be real.

i couldn’t explain, because i never really
think about it, what i do.
if someone wants
a certain reaction from me,
i’ll do everything i can to feel it.

and i’ve done that since childhood.
i suppose it’s a hard habit to break,
because i always wanted to please my father
(how irritating. it’s a cliche, i know).

if he was happy his fists weren’t clenched
and my heart beat calmly,
but when he was angry my world went dark.

a predictable hell, i guess.
i was how he relieved his stress,
his words slicing through me.

so ever since then i’ve done my best
to make everybody happy, no matter what it takes,
even if it means lying to myself
until the things i imagine i should feel
are true and right and the most honest reaction
i have to give.

 

echoes
my mother is a hummingbird;
always nervous,
fretting between ideas
faster than we can see,
too full of memories to
stay still for long.

but i am the tortoise;
taking months to put
one foot in front of
the other, too curious,
too foolish.
i built my shell so
that the world can
not reach me, so
that it only echoes,

echoes,

and fades away
as i bury beneath
my skin.

 

you aren't worth the ink
i would draw you a universe if you were worth the ink,
unfortunately;

blackholes aren't myths and your genetics gave you a messy
tendency to curiosity and i, foolish, scared, trip down after you.

you aren't the type to keep your promises.

i hold you to violence and unpredictability (sometimes the bruises
on my breasts match the scrathes on your back) and i
tell you i prefer you laughing.

i would tear the stars into your bedroom
if you could make me forget the blisters on my brain, but you pretend naivete
and i try to strach off the ink stain you hate, but it's as permanent as tire-burns.

but don't worry; you'll pour passion down my throat until i
forget you're nothing but a craving.

 

masochist
i wish you were here now
so i could beg you to bend
my body
over backwards and leave
fingerprints on my arms,
from your tight grasp.

and i don't mean that in a purely sexual way.

remember when we would "make love"
and i would ask you to slap me as hard
as you could? could you pretty please
sink you teeth into my neck until i bleed?

and with a smirk you obliged,
binding my wrists to your bed frame
with black hockey tape.

and i swear i'm a masochist,
because when your hands were
around my neck was when i
loved you the most.

 

and the moon will sigh
the night begins to dress the earth
as i kneel beside the windowsill
watching the stars, the only part
of the world left unchanged.

and i remember the way i would lay
and listen to you breathe,
your sighs soft like an autumn day.
the nape of your neck curved
like a crane dusted with wanderlust,
its wings unfolded towards the moon.

the way your legs now tangle
around your idea of a perfect girl
makes me sink to the floor,
draping my arms around my legs.
i stare down at my kneecaps,
one an oval, the other a full moon -
you would've called this imperfection.

but i kneel beside the windowsill
searching for train tracks and
airplanes that'll lead you home,
because even though you tore me apart
i need to know that now that i've set you free
you'll be going someplace better.

and the moon will sigh at the sight
of two not-quite lovers, apart.
but i forgive you.