"Bleed"

A couple hours ago I started looking through all the poetry I've written this year, because the final for my creative writing class is to pick a piece (poem or short story) and read it aloud to the class. My thought was to pick a poem, even though they're not really my strong point, because, to be entirely honest with you, the thought of a poetry reading is way cooler to me than just reading some short story.

So I started sifting through my files. I've really grown as a poet, I feel. When I compare the poetry I wrote over the past few months to those from earlier this year, I'm really amazed at the difference. That, and it slaps me in the face to realize what an emo, angsty, love-sick teen girl I was before this summer. Reader, if you've stuck with me all this time through that, you deserve a massive hug and cookies.

All of the poems were familiar to me. I remembered them, remembered writing them, what state of mind I was in at the time. All, that is, except one.

This one was written relatively recently; exactly a month ago, in fact. I didn't even remember writing a poem in November when I saw the date on the file. Curious, wondering if I had mislabeled something by mistake, I clicked on the file and started to read.

It was like reading it for the first time.

I sat with wide eyes and typed my shock at Morgan into the little AIM window of the conversation we were having. This poem was good. And I had completely forgotten about it.

After reading, I remembered writing it again. It all came back to me in a flood, gentle, persistent. I remembered thinking it was a piece of crap and deciding that no one would read it, ever. I remembered being a mess of floaty and nerves and breathlessness. I remembered sitting down at my computer with headphones in my ears because my younger siblings were watching High School Musical 2. I remembered wrestling with myself, struggling to put how I felt onto the page in a legible, intelligible manner.

I guess I succeeded.

So now, I'd like for you to read this, and to give me your honest opinion on it. There's nothing I love more than honest opinion. Except maybe ice cream. And puppies. ....Anyway.

“Bleed”

It’s all a dream to me.

But it’s there, waiting, lurking,
Sometimes in the forefront of my mind,
Screaming for attention, nagging,
Begging until it sends me over the edge.

At other times, it merely flickers,
Wandering like a moth across the movie screen
While moving pictures in black and white
Dance in an aching, twisting manner all night long.

And then, I’m awake, and
It’s only clear when you’re right next to me,
With your body pressed against mine,
Whispering in my ears.
It’s only then that I can taste you, smell you,
It’s only then that the words we exchange actually mean something,
Something tangible that I can reach out and touch,
and taste,
and kiss,
and feel.

I live in a perpetual state of denial.

But your fingers are there, physical, aching,
Searching, making me
Bleed.

There’s pain, but at the same time, a meaning, a reason.

And we sing together about “being alive”
But it’s one thing to sing, and another to know.

I’m dancing on the cusp of knowing and not,
of ignorance, and stupidity, and rash decision, and
Beauty.

Chaos, and coldness, and turmoil, and cries in the near-dark.
It melds together, swirling, aching.
Always aching.

Life is all ache—
there’s not much else I can ask for.