It rained this morning and
I was awake.
It’s been hot these nights
and days but the rain came like
washing through me and
I felt thankful instead of
sunny afternoons or during
the excitement of a thunder
storm. I’m not yours anymore
waking up and stretching the
sleep out if my shoulders. I’m
not yours in forests or at
work or with friends or during
a well cooked meal. I’m not
yours anymore with my hands
on myself. But I’m still yours at
2am, alone in my room, when
my chest fills and won’t empty
back out. I’m still yours when
I need holding and my hands
keep reaching to the ceiling
because there’s no one around."
makes me wild with jealousy; it
makes me needy. I don’t like
myself without you. I want all my
mornings to be sprinkled with
your voice. The hardest part about
low confidence is low confidence
in you wanting to be with me. The
acceptable number of hours apart
is no hours but I know you need
your space. I’m sorry for craving
you so much. I’m trying to deal
with this separation anxiety myself
but you should give me some relief
sometimes. I’ll be as quiet as your
shadow if you’ll just let me be in
the room with you."
i think i expected you to feel like an old warm blanket
like the kind we had a children
to keep us safe
and the monsters at bay
but seeing you again
feel like trying to wrap myself in
of a house i haven’t lived in
we should tear this old house down
no one’s lived here for a long long time
and you and i
did our fair share of damage
things we don’t speak of
things we try to forget
but i know
and so do you
maybe we’ll laugh about it one day
— Kristina Hayes, It looked a lot like love (via misscatfreak)
how to adjust my body around the cool spots in bed,
the way my hair is never exactly right
when I leave the house for a hopeful second date,
the imprint of my bra on my skin after coming home
and letting my dress pool at my feet.
Missing you and missing you.
I eat olives and arugula standing up in the kitchen,
wearing nothing except underwear and pearls.
I do not recognize myself.
Being sad only makes me thirsty.
I drink two glasses of water, take an aspirin,
dance with myself slowly in the living room.
Everything comes back to me in moments—
flashes of your skin, the freckles on your chest,
your perfect wrists, a kneecap, the small of your back.
I peel away the sadness to get down to the pit of the thing
and can never quite manage to finish it.
My hands smell like oranges, clove cigarettes.
Pounds of sadness. I get out of bed. I run the bath.
Chocolate shavings and blueberries for lunch.
Little things, but I am handling it.
Yesterday, I almost called you to tell you that I love you,
but then I remembered I’m not allowed to say it anymore,
and it is awful. You are with me even when I brush my teeth."
— Kristina Hayes, “Love So Good That I Forgot to Say ‘Ouch’” (via oofpoetry)