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Kayla Jan 2016
By now, you have probably read a handful of warnings about falling in love with writers. About how they can take you to the brightest moons or bury you to the core of the earth just by spilling their ink. About how they can forget about mundane things such as your anniversary or what time they should pick you up at work. But they remember the most intricate details such as how your freckles align on your nose or how you stir your coffee when you’re too nervous to start the day. You must have an idea about how they can build a pedestal for you to step on as if you were born to be glorified. Yet the moment you break their hearts they will write you so cruel, the history will remember your name as synonymous to tragedy. Don’t fall in love with writers, they always say. As if your life depends on it.

By the time you meet me, you will know right away that words are my way of becoming. You will sense it by the way I phrase my thoughts or how my eyes light up when talking about strange but fascinating ideas such as alternate universes or the other side. I will reference quotations from the books which pages I rummaged on every single night that I couldn’t sleep and share to you my theories about the lives of my favorite characters as if they are real. I will hold your hands and take you to bookstores and coffee shops and look at you as if you are the loveliest view. I will watch the sunset with you and listen to the sound of the waves crashing to the shore and I will stargaze with you as I confess all the wishes that I only whisper to every constellation. And I will write to you. My text messages will be like love letters that are meant to translate my heartbeats. I will whisper poetry in between our calls. And I will write for you, write about you, write like you are the destination to my unending journey.

By the moment you feel like maybe, just maybe, you are falling for me, will you run away? Will you recall every warning that you have ever read and cringe by the thought of becoming a poem? Will you struggle to break free from my embrace for you are afraid that I will strangle you when the time comes that you decide you don’t want me anymore? Will you look at my love as a hurricane and run for shelter elsewhere because you are terrified of drowning? Or will you welcome my kisses and surrender to my every touch because you don’t want to let go of this feeling? Will you hold me like you will never drop me? Will you put your arms around me and protect the world that I created for myself from the harsh bits of reality? Will you read my words over and over again, memorize every line, embed every sentence in your mind and bury them in your heart like precious treasures that others don’t have the right to get hold of?

If you are going to fall for me, fall not for the flowery meadow that I grow using my proses but for the way I caress your skin just to ease your tiredness. If you are going to stay, stay not because of how I paint you with the most vibrant words but because of how I understand you and accept you beyond all your flaws and imperfections. If you are going to hold me, hold me not because of the warmth that the blanket of my sonnets that can give you but because of the comfort that my presence can cause you even if we are surrounded by silence.

Forget all the warnings that you have ever read about not falling in love with a writer and love me. Love me not because of how words anchor me to myself but because I am human who deserves to receive love and who was born yearning to give it away just like everyone else. Love me as I love you and make me realize that the reality of you and I is so much greater than all the universes that I have penned down, combined. Love me without words. And we will be enough. We will be enough.
Kayla Jan 2016
Darling, I thought you were the one
The one with whom I’d start anew
I could not help it but to see
Excitement that surrounded you

Darling, perhaps you couldn’t tell
That I had loved you in my way
I managed to convince myself
That what we had would be okay

Darling, I thought you were the one
The one who would not be the same
But I was wrong and watched you leave
And felt those feelings all again

Darling, you know you broke my heart
But I stayed strong ‘til you were gone
And though my eyes filled up with tears
I told my heart to carry on

Darling, I thought you were the one
The one with whom I could pretend
That love was not as simple as
Either forever or the end

Darling, I thought, but I was wrong
The two of us weren’t meant to be
We were both caught up in a trance
To someone else’s melody.
Kayla Jan 2016
Home isn’t something on the path.
It’s something you feel, someone you see.
Twisting trees upon the breeze; memories of life
And leaves. A splash of wine that sets you free,
A ghost of heaven and its pleas.

Home is an edge that bleeds,
Gloating. It changes, grows, something homely,
Something foaming.
Something clawing for the morning.

Look too close, and there it goes,
Hiding deeper in the folds.
The edge retreats; I’ll never know
What slid away inside my bones.

But it fuels.
The night drapes, the storm breaks, the cold takes;
And it fuels.
Grueling, loathing, something hoping,
Something you want to go to at the end of every day.

And you where my home.
Kayla Jan 2016
I don’t trust people that drinks their own tragedy, it burns their throat, and they will spit you in the face  when you tell them that there’s no such thing as bad blood. I used to fall in love with hurtful people, I used to make them my muse. I sold my jewellery for their stories, and it got me addicted to caffeine and painkillers.

Let me tell you about tragedy, and let me tell you about the people I admire, and the people I am dedicating this poem to.
I’ve heard of my mother’s tragedy when I was in her womb; I swam through her in her scarlet years, just few years after her mother died. I was born in January, and I heard that the winter cried. When she gave birth to me, she never mentioned the tragedy. She raised me in pretty dresses and named me the sun. My father fell in love with my mother out of tragedy, there are things that are greater than disasters. I see the way my father looks at her, and I know he has forgotten how catastrophe has lived in his heart.
I know a boy who lost his father in the freshness of his childhood. He keeps him alive by saying his name. By mentioning him in the everyday conversation. He keeps his father close to his ribs, to his strong hands, to his beautiful body.
I ate brunch at my friend’s mother’s funeral, we ate dry cake and drank bittersweet black coffee. The funeral brought back old friends from childhood, we put honey on her sorrow, and then licked it away. We laughed softly, cause we cried heavily. Her mother was a woman of summer cigarettes and sweet wine. And it consumed her to happiness. She died of bad lungs, and I know my friend has forgiven her. For she visits her every April with flowers and a pack of cigarettes.

I don’t trust you if you are going to love me despite your tragedy. I am a woman that begs for forgiveness but has none to give. So darling, I beg you not to bring tragedy at my door. I am sleeping with it and I don’t like to see my affairs in the daylight.
Kayla Dec 2015
He didn’t love her for her body.

He loved her for the way she belted out the wrong lyrics while blasting music driving down the highway.

He loved her for the way her eyes brightened like stars on a cloudless night when she saw him.

He loved her for the way she twirled around in her pretty blue dress, barefoot on the soft grass.

He loved her for the way she fumbled over the piano keys, creating a barely recognizable melody.

He loved her for the way she woke up on an early morning, all grumpy and confused, wrapped up tight in a blanket.

He loved her for the way she splashes around in the ocean, kicking the water at him and motioning for him to join her.

He loved her for the way she loved him.

He didn’t love her for her body.

He loved her for her careless, sloppy soul.
Kayla Dec 2015
“You never asked me to stay.”

He spits it like an accusation. He spits it like it’s her fault he walked away.

“Would you? Would you have stayed if I’d asked?”

Her eyes are cold, unrecognisable. But when he looks closely he can see hope in the familiar gold flecks of her hazel eyes.

“I…”

The hope in her eyes is replaced with a wall. He drops his gaze to his hands and she has to stop herself from taking them between her fingertips.

“That’s what I thought.”

This time, she walks away.
heartbreak
Kayla Dec 2015
He’s not the ‘forever’ type.

He’ll take you to a park on your first date and ask you to dance to hungry eyes, and he’ll say ‘gosh, you’re intelligent - you’re not just smart, you’re intelligent’ and he’ll say it like there’s actually a difference.

On the second date he’ll make you fall in love. Not the ‘real’ kind of love but the heart racing, take-your-breath-away kind that says, ‘I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone like this again.’

The cruelest thing he’ll do is let you believe you have a special place in his heart.

He’ll call at 10am or 10pm or halfway through dinner. He’ll call and your heart will lurch and you’ll swoon and laugh and pretend it didn’t hurt when he didn’t turn up last Saturday. He’ll call and you’ll drop your ego like you drop your knife and fork, and you’ll run straight to his front door.

And standing on his porch, you’ll smooth over your skirt and hair, and bite your bottom lip like a schoolgirl who hasn’t learnt her lesson, and he’ll answer the door and say, come, meet my friend. I’m teaching her to dance.

She likes hungry eyes too.

— The End —