the new boy doesn't have his tongue tied around my wrists

I give purpose to blank faces

while you were destroying me, I was learning origami

Trees

Emily

In the ninth grade he kissed me on the lips in the hallway
and I wrapped my hands around his sternum.
I pulled and pulled as he cried out in pain
'til I cracked the bones of his rib cage.
I plunged my hand in and took hold of his heart;
I pulled it out into the sunlight.
I watched it beat sporadically and tried to find a home for it inside my too full chest cavity.
 
There was not enough space but his flesh was healing over the hole in his chest.
And so I held his heart in my hands,
but I was not kind.
I too often squeezed too tightly
leaving black and blue bruises like tattoos.
I should have left ruby red kisses,
but it is too late to kiss it all better.
 
My palms saw droughts and famines,
hopeful rainclouds hanging just out of reach.
Occasional apologies do not make anything better.
His heart wilted and dried in my hands.
I dropped it on the ground in its fragile state while reaching into someone else’s chest.
 
It broke into pieces and I picked up the pieces,
and I held them between my fingers as I punched holes in our chests
and tried to fit them into all the spaces.
I love you is not a long enough phrase to wrap around his chest like an extra large band-aid.
 
I handed him back his shattered heart
and I watched him try to piece it back together like a puzzle.
The problem with separation is erosion.
There are gaps and spaces he can not fill. 
I lend him pieces of myself in the form of “I miss you”
but I always walk away with hands coated in bone dust and blood.
 
I think I have left too much of myself inside of him
because his chest cavity is starving.
He reaches for me like a raincloud, but I’ve brought only dust storms.
 
 
I do not understand the word unconditional.

I blame erosion, but this is all my fault

Everyone's made of star stuff.
I learned that in freshman biology
but I don't think it's beautiful
and I can't see the starshine in your eyes.
You are not a black night,
nor a lack of light,
nor sparkling spheres of fire in the sky.

Silk worms sewed your soft skin in the sunlight
laid it over driftwood bones in the sand.
You smell like ocean breeze,
and your catches wind like a sail.
your vocal cords are violin strings,
your vibrating voice a symphony.
I learned this in September 
but I don't think it's beautiful.

I think you're beautiful,
not your sun-touched, God-struck beginning.
The bubblegum scar on your forearm,
your drunken stumbling,
waning moon fingernails scratching at her remnants.

You're made of star stuff
and silk string
but that's not why you're beautiful.
Everyone is made of pinprick white lights in the darkness;
everyone is made of driftwood bones and orchestras.

You are beautiful for everything you are
and everything you are not.
For the bubblegum scar on your forearm,
for the spaces between your fingers,
for red-knuckled punches you throw through walls.


Dear Dear,

I might just be paranoid but this sounds really familiar and I'm not sure if it's because I wrote it or if it's because I heard it somewhere???

I wrote a thing and idk what to do with it

my name is ash hrim and I want to make you feel things

ashrim

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