If You Feel...

If you’re in love:

I’ve written for a lasting while 

The words roll off my tongue 

But oh, my dear, to see you smile 

Breathes air into my lungs.

And while you know I hate to rhyme 

For fear of sounding trite

I feel the words will come with time 

And meter may feel right.

Oh, when you showed up at my door

My knees and heart grew weak

But, love, I’d known your face before

Though I’d never heard you speak.

Your soul, I felt I’d known a while

Your hair, I recognized

Your ears, your cheeks, your chin, your smile 

The light behind your eyes. 

So darling, won’t you take my hand

And step into the sun?

I don’t have answers or a plan

My dear, we’ve just begun.

But God above will keep you close 

Of nothing else I’m sure.

You’ll be the one I love the most,

My willing heart is yours.

If you’re broken hearted: 

months ago, when all the flowers were dead

i told you to let them die

or do everything in your power to make them bloom.

you watered them and nurtured them.

you let them bathe in the sun and kept them out of harm’s way.

and right when they were in full bloom,

you cut their heads off.

~~~

You keep saying “fair,” 

As if somewhere between the breaking and yelling and leaving,

“fair” existed at all. 

Tell me about this “fair.”

Did you meet her the first time you left or the second? Or was it the third? 

Did you find her in that foreign country that was more important than the girl who was so desperately in love with you?

Did you have drinks with her at the bar with your friends while I sat in bed and counted the cracks in the ceiling for the 18thor 80thtime? 

Stop bringing her up. You don’t know her, and you never have.

And because of you, neither have I. 

If you’re indifferent:

I’ve written this poem before, you know;

The one where I write about “his” eyes and “his” smile and the way “he” makes me feel.

I’ve written about how everything feels like “him” and all the words feel stale in my mouth.

I’m fresh out of love poems, 

So, if you’re hoping for a love poem, 

Go search out some other hopeless romantic whose heart is waiting to be broken,

Because my heart is whole. With or without you.

If you’re angry:

You’re red wine and whiskey,

Heaven and hell.

I crave the way that you kiss me 

But I know just as well

You’re a phantom – elusive,

You’re hard to predict. 

Would you please be transparent? 

You’re making me sick.

Your love gives me whiplash

You’re breaking my neck 

All I want is fulfillment 

And a little respect.

But I know you can’t help it,

You’re sick in the head.

I’m breaking to heal you

But I’m filling with lead.

Two genres of darkness,

And two hearts collide. 

I’m trying to reach you,

You cast me aside.

You put words in my mouth 

And thoughts on my tongue 

You plant flowers in my stomach 

You put air in my lungs.

But I don’t want to smoke this 

And you can’t be sober

So, I won’t shut you out,

But I can’t pull you closer.

If you’re feeling powerful:

To all the boys I’ve loved before 

Who taught me love was cruel and cold 

Who’ve shattered glass and battered doors 

Whose words were old and worn and stale 

Whose stories still have not been told 

Whose shallow lies were thinly veiled 

Your jaded love weighed on my heart 

Your weak excuses have grown old

Your fickle love tore me apart

You will not win, I will not lose 

For on my life you have no hold 

I am no longer yours to use

For you are dull and I am gold 

~~

I will wear my softness as a suit of armor,

I will not let you tell me that sensitivity is weakness

I will wear my brokenness as a shield,

I will not let you tell me that pain is weakness

I will wear my femininity however the hell I want

I will not let you tell me womanhood is weakness.

If you’re not feeling powerful: 

you are not a doormat

you are not a stepping stone

you are not a rung on the ladder

you are not to be left on the shelf until you are needed

you are a force to be reckoned with,

so be reckoned with.

If you’re feeling nostalgic:

It’s the way the candlelight flickers and casts shadows on the walls 

and it’s the dress she’s wearing the first time you see her. 

It’s the reflection of the sunlight in her eyes and the melty feeling you get when you kiss her.

It’s the long-stemmed flowers in the glass in the vase in the kitchen and the dish towels hanging on the stove. 

It’s the living room walls and the fuzzy feeling you get when you watch her watch the sunset.

It’s not the way she leaves with slamming doors and broken promises, but it’s the wine you pour in your glass because it’s the wine she left in your fridge and it tastes like 

candlelight and 

that dress and 

her eyes and 

that feeling and 

those flowers and 

the towels and 

the walls.

If you’re trying to heal:

Healing is so long.

Seasons come and go and just when I think spring is on the horizon,

winter swallows me whole again.

Years may pass, and I may still be stitching up the gaping holes you left

because they keep snagging on old memories or familiar smells and ripping open again

and then I find myself back at square one.

November brought the initial sting, but October is coming up and that means your birthday and

I know that will hurt just as bad. 

December brought false forgiveness and 

January tore down that façade.

February, March, and April brought silence and 

in May, my birthday passed without so much as a nod in my direction.

June brought what I thought was closure until

July brought you back for one single moment that was just enough to open every last wound.

August and September brought stale heartbreak,

the same type I felt before, only worse because it was old and hard to swallow. 

There are days that I don’t think about you and there are days that I don’t think about anything else.

It has been 272 days since that initial wound, and I haven’t healed.

Maybe not at all.

If someone’s on your mind:

Are you thinking of me? 

Not that it matters because I’m doing well 

and things are great

and it’s all working out like I’d hoped, I swear but

Are you thinking of me? 

Not that I’m thinking of you because I’m not,

I swear I’m not 

and why should I be after all that’s happened and all you’ve done

and I’m not thinking of you but 

Are you thinking of me? 

Not that I don’t know that you kissed that one girl in the car at the drive-in movie,

because I do

and I hope she makes you happy, alright, I really do but 

Are you thinking of me? 

Well, are you? 

If you’re feeling jealous: 

I often wonder if you think of me

When you’re singing in your shows 

But it does no good to have thoughts like these 

When I’m here, alone, at home. 

And I swear to you that “it’s really fine”

For what else am I to say? 

That my jealousy feels like a crime 

Since you said you’d never stray? 

Well I can’t say that since you’ll prove me wrong;

The point feels rather moot. 

So, I say nothing while you sing your songs

And my will to speak goes mute.

And I know you’ll say “well, I promised you!” 

And you know I know you’re right,

And I know, deep down, that you will stay true

While you’re out night after night.

But I can’t help but think about years ahead

When you’re standing on a stage,

That a better girl will pop in your head 

And I will look my age.

I promise, dear, that I know these things

Are silly and foolish and false

And the slip-ups and mistakes and f*ck-ups and sins

Of my exes aren’t ever your fault.

But I hope you’ll forgive me for all that happens

When my mind goes a little bit crazy – 

This time, I wrote a poem instead of snapping

(and my rhymes are a little bit lazy)!

My meter’s descended to lyrical hell

And I’m feeling a little bit better,

So, I love you, dear, and I wish you well

And I’m sorry for this stupid letter! 

If you’re missing someone: 

In another universe,

I still have your green eyes and your freckles.

In another universe,

I reach out and you’re still there to make sure I drink water and eat dinner.

But that’s not this universe.

In this universe, 

My knuckles are white from holding on to you when I know you turned your back ages ago.

In this universe,

The you I knew doesn’t exist.

You’re gone,

And I’m still holding on.

 By Bella Townsend

UC Berkeley student, poetry enthusiast and firm believer in Taco Tuesday.