March 27, 2015

The Stranger I Become. {Poem}


Pry me open with rusty handlebars, I like my hands cold.

I find warmth in empty beds, chapped lips and stories untold. My feet pound pavements with no rhythm to shadow.

My eyes search for no one in places I go. My head has forgotten how to rest on heartbeat lullabies—it’s formed burrows in pillows none other than my own.

I am my Valentine, my voice of reason, my Sunday afternoon.

I say no.

No to hungry eyes, to needing, to wanting, to second homes. No to desire, to dependence, to having someone memorize my soul.

Yes to childhood passions, to career-paved dreams, to goals. Yes to nameless scribbles, to sun-ray kisses good morning, and crossing busy streets alone.

I’ve found beauty in this fortress, you see. And freedom in not being told how I should or shouldn’t be.

I still, and always will love fiercely. My heart bleeds for children on streets.

Outcasts in metropolitan seas, and for the rib cages of animals covered in debris. I swallow the tears of friends and lend my smile to perfect strangers.

Never waiting, never wondering, and comfortable in what I know.

But blood still pulses through these veins. I promise.

It took shattered bones to stack these bricks. Patience to decorate these walls with ivy—and learning to muffle screams from thumb pricks.

Wars have come and gone now, chipping wood off my doors. The one thing I’ve learned from all these years, is that these balconies will never crumble to the floor.

It’s not devastation or disappointment I fear, I’ve never stopped trusting with all my heart. It’s checking the plus one on invites, and suddenly realizing it’s you I needed from the start.

Who is this person in your arms?

It’s only in love where I forget how to breathe.

My lungs expel all sense and structure, as inhaled kisses break through sealed concrete. Longing for someone tastes like failure on my tongue.

Hurt me if you must, hurt me if you will. You can’t bury a person who’s programmed surviving into their will.

Expect an expiry date on the fun.

I’ll bring charcoal powered trains, speeding cars and rage-bitten bulls to a screeching halt. Anything, anything just to recognize myself for one more day.

Please let me run.



To The Women With Warm Hearts & Cold Hands.


Author: Naomi Hon

Volunteer Editor: Melissa Horton / Editor: Travis May

Photo: Yuliya Libkina, Flickr 


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