you have to write like the people you’re writing about will never see the poems / like you’re not afraid if your mom reads it / you have to write for yourself / like the writing is the only thing that matters / and it does / good bloody writing comes from being vulnerable even when you are in fear / if you want to tell the truth then you are going to get messy and hurt / you are going to feel like no one will ever want to date you / you will feel like all your friends are looking at you differently after THAT poem / you will feel naked amongst acquaintances who say, “you know, i’m a big fan of your blog” / no one has this much confidence when they spend large amounts of their time writing down their biggest insecurities / but they fake it / you’re a writer / you make things up / they faked it / now it’s your turn
My love, how was I to know
that they would make a myth of us?
Did we not die? Are we not dead?
Are your bones not my bones?
Before the war.
Before we had to
kiss Troy out of each other’s
teeth, we were a paradise.
You were the only one I kneeled
before.
You made the warrior in me tired.
They write about your death.
How I sliced through countless
men trying to build a
monument to the monster
I was after your body
blazed before me.
I can tell you now that
I begged for the arrow.
Welcomed it.
My last wish was to
sleep beside you in our tent.
To hide you so well in the afterlife
that no God could take you
from me again.
My quiet love was yours from the
beginning.
I call my ankles by your name.
When mother dipped me in the river, she was introducing us.
