Poetry Writes

I still talk to you. I'm sorry.

You've been dead for longer than

I dare to admit. I don't count

the years, don't look at the calendar,

don't delete the messages that go nowhere.

No one responds,

but sometimes I wonder

if your son sees them -

the lost transmissions to somewhere

we break into atoms, and wonders if

he knew you at all. If I knew your address,

I'd go to your house, no matter how

far,

just to tell him:

Poem text:

I want to drive past something

beautiful. Past the present moment,

as long as the road keeps disappearing

from the view.

I'll sit in a passenger's seat

and won't give you directions.

I used to not know how to deal with

not knowing what tomorrow brings.

I still don't except now

I hope it comes. Once it does,

I want to rush through the painful parts cause there are always

painful parts.

Some days more than others. Some days are all a highway.

Let's think it's a road trip. Let's go

somewhere further.

I don't remember the last gas station. I don't want to start making sense.

I don't want you to stop the car.

I don't want to know where we're going

Or if we drove past it

off the road.

-eulogy?

a present for @outofbodyinjury​!

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-pink cocktails with golden rim,

A.H.

If you want to support my work or commission a poem, here is my ko-fi.

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If you want to support my work, here’s my ko-fi.

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If you want to support my work, here is my ko-fi.

Text:

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or the winter of last year, or 

that time I got gently crushed

out of love. 

It is golden, it’s sweet, it’s a dream, 

and the dream gives me chickens. They are running around, making silly sounds like chickens do, because they are chickens and because they can. 

They are golden and free, their tiny hearts beating fast because they’re alive and haven’t been broken. 

There is nothing they have to do but exist 

because they can, because the dream is generous and the sun is shining, 

and the grass demands 

to be run on. 

The dream is a dream. 

The dream turns

chickens headless. 

They keep running but the sound is gone, on mute. Just legs and no destination, their bodies trying to make sense of the silence, of the lightness that comes 

with beheading. 

I’m running, too, with the tiny broken bodies around me. 

All I know is, I’m good at that, and my hollow bones propel me further and further into the grass. The grass demands to be run on. 

My heart is still beating with no purpose behind it. 

Only silence. Beheading. Nothing grows back 

after it ends. 

-free to run, Tan

for @betweenheroesandvillains

First poem in a while. If you want to support my writing, I have a ko-fi here. ID under the cut.

Wrote this one a few years ago and it’s been sitting heavily with me.

If you want to support my work and my general disasbled existence, here’s my ko-fi. Image description below the cut.

If you want to support my writing and me getting medical treatment, here is my ko-fi. Transcript under the cut.

If you want to support my writing and me getting medical treatment, here is my ko-fi. Transcript under the cut.

survives in amber, unharmed.

Fern still lives with its green

leaves unfurled in the dead

yellow.

The fern and the amber,

both being one -

a recollection, a memory,

something no longer fragile

yet no longer breathing.

Maybe it isn’t survival

if all that is left

is a stone and nothing to break.

-tender things, Tan