Thursday, February 19, 2015

Thoughts Before Bed

An unedited poem that I felt like sharing.

Thoughts Before Bed

Sometimes I wish I could peel back
pieces of who I am. Like a snake shedding
its skin—I want to rip off all the times I ever
felt like there was nothing left, to shred the
parts of life when life didn’t feel like
it was worth living anymore. I want to pick
off each, individual tear that has ever fallen
from my eyelashes and throw every single one into a vase—
preferably one with colored flowers spilling over
the top; a reminder that good can grow from the bad.
I want to gently pour out the parts of me
that have quickly fallen in love with smaller things
like books and movies and poetry and you,
and make room for quiet laughter and first kisses, for
late night talks about what's out there for us.
I want to lift up each freckle to remember
what it felt like underneath the summer water or
how chapped my lips can get during the winter, when
snow would kiss them instead of you. Part of me
wishes everything would disappear, that I would
implode into this emptiness—that I could learn
to love and feel and thrive without all of the parts
I want to peel back.

But what would be the point in that?

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