She Wanted Storms

"We are all worms, but I do believe that I am a glow worm." -- Winston Churchill
~ Wednesday, March 5 ~
Permalink
If you were to love me,
you should have to know
that I would look at you
with a writer’s eye -
the silent curve of your
body would mesh with the
rush of your breath and the
tiny moves you make would
keep me thinking up all night
because every little, minuscule
detail is huge in the eyes of a
poet, who seeks meaning in the
freckles in your eyes and the length
of your gaze, beneath a speckled sky at
midnight. You should have to be warned
that there may be a hundred anonymous
poems written in your image
and a thousand references to
the ripple of your stomach with your
laughter or the slight chip on your left
incisor that I never stopped inventing
a history for.
You may be surprised one day to find
a letter on old and withered paper
(because how else does a poet craft a letter?)
filled with verses written in honor
of your lingering kisses and sly
compliments that you tried to cover
with a joke and a blush.
You may be old and withered too,
the sinew and dew of your flesh turned
loose from years of touches and kisses
and holding too tight,
but you will know that somewhere,
there is a young girl clothed in the bags of age
who remembers nothing but your smile
on hot august nights beneath the stars,
and who could not forget the cadence
of your voice when you whispered her name,
or the weight of your hips or the exact places
you loved to hold.
If you were to love me,
you would have to be warned
that I would not miss the significance
of a glance or a fluttering touch,
and that I would remember the rhythm of
your heart beat until
the day I died, because
a writer loves within the details,
and a writer never forgets.
— If you were to love me - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilledink twc originalwriting love writer
2 notes
Permalink
I would love to be the ocean
dark and deep
I would love to carry sailors on
my tossing, churning seas.
But instead I am a river,
instead I am a stream
my waves are much less deadly
my kisses half as sweet.
No dark and trembling wanderers
come to watch my gentle swell
no hurt and troubled outcasts
come to rinse what they can’t tell.
The sun that rises on my banks
is never half as bright
as that of the wide, wild ocean
and her vividly beating heart.
Oh, I wish for her ripples and glimmers,
her moon-bound pull and flow,
I’d love to contain her sandy depths
as they wrap around the world
But I am a humble river,
bent in longing to her side,
with my currents of envy I feed
her huge and rushing tides.
— Diary of the River - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilledink twc writing originalwriting ocean tide envy
4 notes
~ Tuesday, March 4 ~
Permalink
Beautiful child
covered in webs of dreams,
let down your tangled hair
and stretch your curled limbs
heavy with sleep
you begin to rise –
like a mermaid from the sea
you emerge from sleep,
enchanted and
enchanting me.
— Merchild - S.w.S. (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilledink twc poem creativewriting
2 notes
Permalink

I.

I met you on lsd
you took me for a car ride
and played music that shook my soul
and shattered my spine -
what a beginning.

II.

The first time I kissed you,
you tasted like tequila and spearmint
and you smiled shy with a thousand questions
but not a single demand.
You took me home and we fell asleep
with our clothes on.

III.

I never had a home like your embrace
we spent a month sleeping on your couch,
skipping our morning classes to drink coffee
and lounge in the drunken glow of togetherness
and I swear I’d never been happier in my life

IV.

That summer we fell in love
and got high at music festivals and wooded places
and made naïve promises about the future
that seemed too large and wonderful to be true,
but we meant every word.
We still do.

V.

Leaving for school that fall
took more courage than I think you knew
and I spent too many nights crying,
homesick for your eyes and the warmth of your skin.
Distance is a brutal teacher;
every time we fought tears stained my cheeks
red and my lungs constricted from the bruised swelling
of my heart.
But we learned, and grew strong.

VI.

This poem does not have an ending
only crossed fingers and white-knuckled prayers
that fate smiles at we two lovers
and says “yes, you are meant to be”

— Our Story: A Poem - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilledink twc poem story lovestory
13 notes
Permalink

Just letting you lovely people know that I’m going to start reposting a lot of my old work as quotes rather than text posts, just because I don’t like how text posts get cut off when they are reblogged. 

Hopefully you guys will enjoy reading some of my old work half as much as I’m going to enjoy revisiting my past writing. 

Much love,

S.w.S. (Shewantedstorms)

Tags: personal reposting loveyouall
~ Wednesday, February 26 ~
Permalink
Whispered: “don’t forget:
there were magic times we had together,”
sitting, holding hands, adventuring into
neon blue darkness, laughing.
We were not innocent, but innocent
in the way we held each other,
carelessly intimate, soft and trusting.
I, more child than woman at heart,
loving you wholly, without qualm or restraint
You, kissing me sweetly, your eyes so tender that they spoke:
“you are the world to me; to me, you are home.”
Summer, warm air and an empty campus,
longing for you on faraway nights,
the newness of “us” tingling in my lower belly.
We, the children of love, so new.
We, alive in the discovery of the other.
— Remembering New Love - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)

13 notes
reblogged via shewantedstorms
~ Tuesday, February 25 ~
Permalink
Whispered: “don’t forget:
there were magic times we had together,”
sitting, holding hands, adventuring into
neon blue darkness, laughing.
We were not innocent, but innocent
in the way we held each other,
carelessly intimate, soft and trusting.
I, more child than woman at heart,
loving you wholly, without qualm or restraint
You, kissing me sweetly, your eyes so tender that they spoke:
“you are the world to me; to me, you are home.”
Summer, warm air and an empty campus,
longing for you on faraway nights,
the newness of “us” tingling in my lower belly.
We, the children of love, so new.
We, alive in the discovery of the other.
— Remembering New Love - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)

13 notes
reblogged via shewantedstorms
Permalink
Whispered: “don’t forget:
there were magic times we had together,”
sitting, holding hands, adventuring into
neon blue darkness, laughing.
We were not innocent, but innocent
in the way we held each other,
carelessly intimate, soft and trusting.
I, more child than woman at heart,
loving you wholly, without qualm or restraint
You, kissing me sweetly, your eyes so tender that they spoke:
“you are the world to me; to me, you are home.”
Summer, warm air and an empty campus,
longing for you on faraway nights,
the newness of “us” tingling in my lower belly.
We, the children of love, so new.
We, alive in the discovery of the other.
— Remembering New Love - S.w.S (shewantedstorms)
Tags: poetry spilled ink text burningmuse love orignalwriting originalwork creativewriting prose freeverse
13 notes
Permalink

Intimacy

We are new things.
Alone in our first year together
cocooned in whispered promises
we lie safely in the darkness.
We share warmth, soft touches
light over naked skin.
We are ourselves, mostly
we lounge in the comfort
and the ease of being so at home,
so grounded in togetherness.
 

I lay my ear on your heartbeat and inhale
the sweet mix of sweat and cologne
and my blood sings hymns in my veins —
there is no bliss like laying in your arms.
 

I tighten my grip, and look up into your eyes
you consume me; I am lost in the warm ocean of your embrace.

 

Tags: poetry spilled ink love intimacy writing originalwriting text creativewriting personal foreric
5 notes
~ Wednesday, February 12 ~
Permalink

On Taylor (written a year ago)

It was summertime, and I was in a bad place. A soul-wrecking, nightmare-inducing, roller-coaster ride from hell. I’m talking about waking up every morning still drunk in some unrecognizable hell hole with no clue how I got there and no desire to find out. I’m talking about the kind of dirty you can’t bathe away. These were my dark days — when the cuts on my wrists were too fresh to scar, when my lips tasted like a dozen strangers with names I couldn’t recall. I lived a life of compulsory self-destruction; because I had ceased belonging to the functioning world, I felt compelled to become its antithesis.

That summer, amidst the carnage of my deteriorating life, I met a girl named Taylor. Ordinary name, isn’t it? Deceptively so. Taylor was fascinating, vibrant, an enigma. I’m not going to be able to tell you exactly what was so wonderful about her, but I’d imagine it’s something like love at first sight with a dash of tragedy and sin thrown into the mix. I met her at some party and it struck me immediately that she was different; somehow more than anyone else I’d ever known.

Taylor had a lip ring. I’m not sure why that’s important, but it is. She kissed me and I tasted something entirely foreign, a savage energy that I wanted to know as intimately as my own mind. Hers was an essence I wanted to conquer. Finally, I’d met someone as wild as I was, as deeply and utterly taken with destruction and the seemingly limitless nature of man’s capacity for wreckage.

Our affair was brief — we met on a few other occasions, at parties, late at night when the black sky hushed up doubts and brought our darker natures forward. I suppose we were never really lovers, but I like to think that we could have been, if we’d only given it the chance.

The last time I saw her was at a Halloween party. After that, she just disappeared. Dropped off the grid, erased everyone from her life, and started over. If I had to guess, I’d say she’d finally had enough of self-destruction and pain — lord knows I did after a while.

I feel like it’s important to mention that never before in my life, and never again since, have I felt any inkling of attraction towards another woman. Taylor was an anomaly, a force that existed outside of gender or sexuality. In the years since I last saw her, I’ve often woken from dreams of her holding me, stroking my hair in the corner of a smoky room. When I think of my past, she remains something of a curiosity, an entity I could never fully grasp, an experience that left me questioning my own identity.

From what I’ve heard from other people, she’s different now. They say she found God, that she fell in love with some good religious boy. That she’s happy now. From what I’ve heard, I doubt I’d still know her if I met her again. I’d like to be happy for her, but the thing is, she may have changed, but I’m not that different. I still live in a world dominated by destructive forces. I still thrive on wild nights when the moon pulls my soul from my skin and drives me half mad. I still have an appetite for danger and a restless disposition. I still wake up in strange places, and I still don’t care to know how I end up there.

I guess I just miss her. The old her that is, the one I knew. The one who kissed me half mad with the taste of violence and laughter on her tongue — because she changed me in a strange way, made me a little less closed off, brought my impenetrable solitude to its knees and then left me with nothing but wind.

It just feels bleak, like chain-smoking alone on a winter night, to think that I will never walk into a crowded room and spot her, drink in hand, smiling and beckoning me over. It’s oddly empty to think that that person doesn’t exist anymore.

Nights like these I wonder if I let someone hugely important walk right out of my life that summer. I wonder if I shouldn’t have let her go so easily.

Life is strange, I guess. But man, some nights I wonder… what might have been.

Tags: prose spilled ink writing originalwork creativewriting memoir memory sexuality lesbian bisexual regret truestory personal
5 notes