🍌🍃

(pen) name is R.A. Silverman

he/him

spacehey (other writing blog, I post drafts on my bulletins) ->

all poetry -> https://allpoetry.com/ghostinur-room

i write stuff sometimes and i like it sometimes

got a reminder of an old situationship-that-never-was the other night, who i haven't thought about in a LONG time. dug up an old draft from around then that I never bothered to fix up, figured I might share it here (I dont think anybody really checks my blog anyway lol. if anyone ik found the poem i dont think theyd know who it was about anyhow, with the exception of people i explicitly told at the time. and if said subject does somehow find this and somehow figures out it was about them, hope youre doing well. i know ive certainly improved since we last spoke.) haven't written in a while, might try to get back to that soon...I hope..

blood stains on fresh laundry.

the linen, clean and white

pure

like snow fallen mid-December

a single streak of red

wine spit on the street

a disruption.

you're sitting there,

in your collared shirt

humming gently.

i watch.

you sip from something too sweet

tooth-rotting and overwhelming

it would sicken me

but not you

i drink from my own cup

coffee, a touch of cream

nothing else.

no sugar or sweetener.

rich and warm

bitter, but savored.

id choke on yours,

you'd cough up mine.

shot down,

like a pill hard to swallow.

you gaze down at the table

across the room.

a pot of flowers sits outside in the cold.

flourishing,

they work well with winter.

a gentle purple,

complementing the snow.

pansies.

i look at the white of your shirt

the red in my jacket.

the cut on my hand.

your lead-stained fingertips.

band-aids littering mine.

one of us is much more careful.

you'll go pick the flower, i'm sure.

i hope.

it will be something you can treasure

something to care for.

after you leave i'll run out

knock over my cup

spill hot coffee on my hand

and hope the burn leaves a scar.

i don't want to run the risk

of holding you here

when you're destined for frosted meadows

this morning i laid down on the couch after i ate. I thought about my grandma. how when I was a kid id curl up on her new couch and hide in the corner of it when I was cold. she'd get a blanket and toss it over me. pat my head and then id fall asleep. I haven't thought about her in a while. I dont think ive really realized she's gone. her house is sold and we went through all her belongings so long ago. I have her sticky note container and her blue-jay figure in my bedroom. she'd read books with me. just like my mom loved to. even if they were on different sides of the family.

quite literally JUST scribbled it down. rough and messy and nonsensical. but maybe thats the beauty of it. I dont know if ill bother editing it later and turning into something a but more matured, but we'll see.

-

there is a boy. 

he is toeing the line 

legs wobbly as a newborn deer 

he holds out his hand 

for an invisible partner. 

he is not there. 

it is only the boy 

he must steady himself on this tight-rope. 

his arm begs for another dancer 

who does not come. 

he bows to a ghost 

movements akward and unattractive 

posture hidden and curled 

his body aches

he breaks his own bones 

standing up straight 

he performs in boxers and a beater 

for nobody to see 

explosions of the world 

shut out 

his reflection blurs in and out of focus 

he isnt recognizable 

he makes himself into a character.

a prince.

a fraud. 

drowns himself 

in picturesque suffering 

hangs out a window in the cold night air 

begs to burn 

poisons himself with smoke 

an infection more tangible 

than the one weeded in his mind 

tangles his arms around himself 

to substitute 

or to strangle 

he doesnt know. 

he would hit something if he was stronger 

if he was braver  

if he was bolder 

but there is resignment 

etched into his bones. 

silence 

carved in his skin. 

stitches holding it all together 

and they are starting 

to rip. 

to tear. 

he bites into his arm 

flesh falls off. 

hoping to reveal some part of himself hes missing 

to break through

to widen the circle 

but all thats there 

is tissue 

and blood. 

even raw 

he can not find 

his true self 

the soul 

can not 

be 

found. 

.. 

lord 

let me tear out my hair 

scream his name to the wind 

let it drown 

in city's murmur. 

lose him 

kill him 

and be reborn. 

let me escape

the prison  

you caged me in 

and watch 

the struggle 

miss me 

want me 

forgive me 

hate me 

turn away 

before 

i taint you 

as you 

tainted me.  

the ache pleads 

to come out 

and bleed. 

to be seen. 

bright and gory 

sick. 

undeniably seen, 

yet too gruesome 

to be helped. 

fall apart 

on the stage. 

perform. 

and let the corpse 

- "money doesn't equal happiness"

- too much caffeine

- waiting until you finish reading all your books before buying a new one

Dear Whisperer:

Listen carefully

to the dreams, hopes, and wishes.

Dear Attractive:

connect with those

contagious,

deprived,

like-minded,

stars.