#kim visda

Broken ribcages. Falling asleep inside the dip of your collarbones. Slivers of light cutting through the cracks between your individual vertebrae.

It’s all been said before and to use them again would be an insult because your eyes are not pools of ocean.

Your lips are not flower beds and you are not a temple.

I could not capture you even if the words were written in my own blood because this skin can only hold so much. Because I can no longer look at you without burning.

You are too painful for poetry and too big for language.

You are far too many things I don’t know how to write about.

For The Lack Of A Better Poem

This is not a poem.  This is a 3 a.m.  phone call to 911  from the back  of a stranger’s trunk. This is a prayer.  This is a bar napkin secret flushed down the toilet  of a one-night stand’s  studio apartment.  A bucket list – only 7) fall in love  crossed out of it.  These, my hands.  Things I would ink  on skin if all the paper  in the world disappeared.  This is a swear. A gunshot  fired, echoing, from a distance.  Me saying yes  to myself  and no to anyone who  makes me feel like I don’t  deserve it. This is  the afterthought  of a door slamming.  The anatomy of a parentheses. Another name for the heart. This is my mother,  seven years old  and surviving on nothing  but soy sauce  for dinner. This is never an apology.  This is what the night would say  if it had your mouth on my mouth before I punched you on the mouth. But mostly what the light  would say. Always,  the word  stay. 

THIS IS NOT A POEM.

This is a 3 a.m phone call to 911 from the back of a strangers trunk. This is a prayer this is a bar napkin secret flushed down the toilet of a one night-stands studio apartment. A bucket list - only 7) Fall in love crossed out of it. These, my hands. Things I would ink on skin if all the paper in the world disappeared. This is a swear. A gunshot fired, echoing, from a distance. Me saying yes to myself and no to anyone who makes me feel like I don't deserve it. This is the afterthought of a door slamming. The anatomy of a parentheses. Another name for the heart. This is my mother, seven years old, and surviving on nothing but soy sauce for dinner. This is what the night would say if it had your mouth on my mouth before I punched you on the mouth. But mostly what the light would say. Always, the word stay.