sometimes i like to pretend i write poetry
Vaguely inspired by many people in my life. meant to be spoken word (I guess?)
(Also hi! Long time no see...)
When I was five, I fell in love with a boy whose eyes laughed when he said my name. He held my hand across a rink of thin glass with a grip that caught me when my feet stumbled over invisible scratches. My mother always told me, Prince Charming isn’t the one who sweeps you off your feet, but the one you will go barefoot in the snow looking for. Search for him until your knuckles are numb even though he laughs when he doesn’t mean it and stutters when he’s nervous, but he’ll always let you have the last word. Place a finger against the ripped seams of his heart and patch up loose threads with stitches that don’t fade. Don’t let go.
And when the wind threatens to knock you off your feet, tell it, I’ve already been there. Because even though he doesn’t eat what you love, he’ll taste what you hate so he can eat it every time you don’t. And when his eyes laugh, you’ll feel it hook inside you, a Captain keeping the crocodile jaws open because against the reptilian body of your insecurity he’ll still find a way to call you beautiful. Hold my hand, even if there’s only one left. Don’t let go.
And sometimes, he will. He’ll let you slip through the gaps between clammy unsteady heartbeats and you’ll find yourself falling, but the only way from down is back up. Sometimes, his eyes will forget to laugh and all the words will be stuck in his throat, on his tongue, in the quiet silences between stitches and you’ll want to put on shoes in the snow. But even then, when you trip and lose your balance, there will be hands strong at your back, voice soft and in-between silences softer, your feet stumbling into perfect-fitting thin glass shoes. You’re the one I was looking for.
So don’t let go.
(Also hi! Long time no see...)
When I was five, I fell in love with a boy whose eyes laughed when he said my name. He held my hand across a rink of thin glass with a grip that caught me when my feet stumbled over invisible scratches. My mother always told me, Prince Charming isn’t the one who sweeps you off your feet, but the one you will go barefoot in the snow looking for. Search for him until your knuckles are numb even though he laughs when he doesn’t mean it and stutters when he’s nervous, but he’ll always let you have the last word. Place a finger against the ripped seams of his heart and patch up loose threads with stitches that don’t fade. Don’t let go.
And when the wind threatens to knock you off your feet, tell it, I’ve already been there. Because even though he doesn’t eat what you love, he’ll taste what you hate so he can eat it every time you don’t. And when his eyes laugh, you’ll feel it hook inside you, a Captain keeping the crocodile jaws open because against the reptilian body of your insecurity he’ll still find a way to call you beautiful. Hold my hand, even if there’s only one left. Don’t let go.
And sometimes, he will. He’ll let you slip through the gaps between clammy unsteady heartbeats and you’ll find yourself falling, but the only way from down is back up. Sometimes, his eyes will forget to laugh and all the words will be stuck in his throat, on his tongue, in the quiet silences between stitches and you’ll want to put on shoes in the snow. But even then, when you trip and lose your balance, there will be hands strong at your back, voice soft and in-between silences softer, your feet stumbling into perfect-fitting thin glass shoes. You’re the one I was looking for.
So don’t let go.