Grid View
List View
  • aboutmeinpoems 9w

    Uniquely yours

    There is a slope to your nose, and my fingers trace it.
    Hoping it will lead to the kindness
    that has made you this way.
    There is an arch to your eyebrows so naturally perfect; it stands out.
    You stood out at that party;
    in those moments when I think about infatuation.
    There is a curtain in front of your eyes, and it's glossy.
    I have questioned why several times, no way-
    No one can have gleaming eyes as such.
    There is a curl on the back of your nape that I frequently caress,
    so often, I think it has hidden.
    It has hidden among your other curls,
    correctly assembled in disarray.
    I don't remember what it was like before you,
    you without me; with a degree in planning.
    Sketching pillars and accepting the beauty of Rome.
    Telling myself that if I build my body with their architecture in mind,
    it will be easier for my lungs to collapse within their cage.
    I’ll tell others that there is a fight between gladiators tomorrow.
    The winner will be the last organ to stop working.
    There is a scar on your cheek, and you carry your burdens with you.
    I hide them.
    And you have managed to love them out of me,
    As my lungs learn to respire without fear,
    I have learned to validate your troubles.
    And it is okay.
    You can displace them within me.
    I have built a coliseum with my ribs,
    and before, my insides suffocated.
    Now I take your burdens,
    and everything you never said before,
    you can place here.
    There is a slope to your nose, and my fingers trace it.
    What a subtle thing love is, uniquely yours.


    - P.A
    ©aboutmeinpoems

  • aboutmeinpoems 29w

    ephemeral

    I do not think I was made for long lasting relationships, and it is all my fault.
    One day, when I wake up, I will make a scrapbook.
    Remove the ‘s’ and place it as a label in the library of my heart.
    Right there, under that letter, is gonna be my first note.
    “Shitty encounters”
    Author: me
    Co-Writers: all the relationships I never rebuilt.

    - P.A
    ©aboutmeinpoems

  • aboutmeinpoems 38w

    understanding

    There is a shaking in my hands that has not ceased since I started typing.
    A nervous tick that reminds me once again of how fragile my mind is.
    In the most beautiful of thought spaces, I am reminded of my sadness.
    In the most beautiful of thought spaces, I like to think that I can get help.
    My brain’s a prisoner of its functions and only performs one duty at a time.
    It steals the last chance I have of regaining my composure.
    My ribs reside in a skeleton that is so far removed from the flesh sticking to it,
    that I call it ‘Starving.’
    Sometimes I dream of journeys
    Takes a million years for me to return from them.
    Accidentally, I stumble upon other characters.
    Recountings of joyous times are told.
    Very few times, during these journeys, I feel the villain appear.
    In those instances, I hold my breath and try to wake up.
    Not once have I succeeded.
    Gone is my peace of mind
    I guess I am starving now
    But it is not the same starving I used to practice.
    When I first put the fingers down my throat,
    it burnt,
    I don’t do it anymore.

    -P.A
    ©aboutmeinpoems

  • aboutmeinpoems 40w

    How can I say

    How can I say

    I am me in your presence,
    Honest to you.
    I am drowning in your youth,
    In your sentimentality.
    I am laughing at your friends,
    At how you laugh with them;
    Talking about regrets and not knowing how to treat me right.
    When we both know that late at night you drink the demons that roam my lips,
    And place them between your ribs.
    I am frowning at your lies,
    Your blatant lies.
    You stand on rooftops with your friends,
    Claiming to be happy,
    Saying you resemble the clouds.
    When we both know that cheap beer and daisies don’t erase your pain.
    When it is only the four of us at night:
    You, me, your tears, and the nagging in my heart.
    When the nightmares I struggle with become a part of you,
    And I’m left to heal while you collapse inside.
    Like Rome,
    You’re Pompeii and I’m Mount Vesuvius.
    The city left inside your palms is barren.
    I am yours as a whole,
    As a fraction.
    I’ll take three-fourths of the pain and let you keep the rest,
    So you learn and move on.
    I am me when you are content,
    When you confess your sins as the sun sets in and relief comes out.
    I ask about those nights,
    When you twist and shout,
    But your vinyl player is broken, and the Beatles are not to blame.

    -P.A
    ©aboutmeinpoems

  • aboutmeinpoems 40w

    I’ve changed

    Back home my skin was a bit darker,
    my hair was tired,
    and my hands were smaller.
    Here, my face has changed,
    my height has remained stagnant,
    and my breasts have grown.
    I don’t think I ever understood puberty.
    I thought I would wake up one day
    and my whole body would be different
    I thought that I would instantly love my face,
    and my shoulders,
    legs,
    arms,
    stomach.
    I think I lied to myself and dreamt of impossible things,
    like a prettier face,
    out of nowhere.
    I miss who I was,
    I miss young ‘me’
    I miss that and more, and a bit more than that,
    and that which is gone.
    I miss myself
    myself
    myself
    myself
    beautiful, not because of looks,
    but because of innocence and prevalent time.

    -P.A

    ©aboutmeinpoems

  • aboutmeinpoems 40w

    It’s now February and I realize I haven’t bloomed.
    Spring is nearby and the only way I can make myself forget about the mistakes I have made
    is by courting the shadows that follow me
    and telling them to disperse.
    It’s almost March and I realize I’m unlovable.
    Whether it’s the flowers or the soil rooting me down to reality, I do not know.
    In the following weeks to come, I will be lying to myself about how this week could have been worse.
    It does not get any worse than this.
    I do not know what to tell people when they ask for relationship advice.
    I lie, as I do best.
    The only relationship I have held onto long enough is that which I have with my parents,
    and sometimes that falters as well
    when they cannot decipher why I do not want to eat or why I’m quieter than before.
    I lie a lot when they ask about my grades,
    I lie because it is easier to do so than to tell them that the only time I have felt as though grades are important, is when I translate letters to numbers and put myself on a scale to measure the ratio of skin to bone.
    How do you tell someone you love that your body is made of cheap clay and cheap clay only?
    You don’t.

    - P.A
    ©aboutmeinpoems