day eighteen.

circa 1800.

-

she was always a woman

born in the wrong time,

a few centuries too late

for her heart to make 

an impact.

she would have liked 

to change something,

to have a permanent place

in an interchangeable world.

day seventeen.

chalk. 
-

he made chalk murals,

his hands always caked

with the ash of his art.

pinks and blues and

greens, sifting together

to form grey coating against

his working palms.

he drew a rising sun,

unfolding from the sidewalk,

to shine on forgotten flower beds.

he snuck into playgrounds

of inner-city schools,

to draw happy pictures,

something beautiful

for children who lived

in a world of locks

to wake up to.

and one night,

he crept into your driveway

and drew a woman with bare shoulders,

her back a graceful arch

her hair, fiery red

whipping around in

imaginary wind.

day sixteen.

missed.

-

her aunt told her that they were the kind of women

that make men fall in love with them

soft

and lovely

and light

she told her that she had it,

that thing that sends men spinning.

said that it was in her blood, her eyes.

she said it wasn't conscious,

wasn't to be abused,

that it was wrong

to try to lure in a man

who had no choice. 

her aunt tells her that one day, she too

will make men kneel at her feet.

it was never something

any of them wanted,

five sisters,

women scorned,

losing in love

with the only men

who ever mattered.

the next day, she kisses her aunt 

and steps outside. looks across the wall 

at the boy with shining eyes and ringing laugh,

and thinks that the gift missed her. 

day fifteen.

skyla. 

-

this is for you

not just for you

but for me too

memories taken down

onto paper,

made alive 

a second time.

summers on 

wrap-around couches

and writing on backs,

t-shirts pulled up

over heads.

feet burnt on asphalt,

and pizza,

and too many kids for one place

but making it work.

a short

yellow jumpsuit 

worn every other day

and chlorine-gobbled

hair.

further back.

homemade play-dough

and cupcakes,

burnt carpet 

and purple hands

on a plate.

old home videos

of easter morning,

shared candy

and snickering

under beds.

long hair

and disney movies

and falling asleep

before new years.

seventeen years.

seventeen memories.

seventeen kisses. 

day fourteen.

love songs.
-

she asked her mother

once

why every song

on the radio

was about love.

her mother told her

it was because love

was the most 

important thing

in the entire world. 

she still thinks

about it,

every time

she twists 

the dial on. 

day thirteen.

tepid. 
-

she loved him

for his heat.

his lips were 

hot

his body was

hot

his words were

blazes,

his eyes

held fire.

so

when he kissed her,

hands in hair,

lips tepid,

she already knew

what he wanted to say. 

day twelve.

soda car crash.
-

they always

jinxed

same words at the 

same time, like

they were the same

person, one

mind wrapped 

around another,

tight.

same outfits

on the same days,

same interests,

same heartbeat.

tha-thudding.

tha-thudding.

tha-thudding.

jinx.

jinx.

jinx.

their last jinx

was turning
at the same time.

day eleven.

"i'll be there."
-

be there.

be there.

be there,

be there,

be there. 

she drops 

your bracelet

and kicks dust

into a cloud

behind her

when you're not. 

day ten.

speed of light blood 

-

this is where i come from

here

right here

can you feel it?

do you feel the beating?

that's my blood,

rushing,

careening, racing,

hurtling through my body

searching for you in circles,

trying to find you

in empty veins.

day nine.

black elastic heart strings. 

-

the black elastic

around his wrist

was like a string

tied to his heart.

when she slipped

her fingers

underneath it,

and tugged him 

forward,

towards her,

he fell.

hard.

day eight.

what we can do. 

-

i know you wonder

if we can tell,

if we can see it

in your eyes

when we look at you.

your guilt

your lies

your dirt

every

treachery

laid out,

bare

truth is, 

we can.

day seven.

late nights. 
(for katie.)
-

watering eyes

and blurring words,

minutes melding

one into the other

the red numbers

on the clock

do a sped up dance,

sleep a teetering

fantasy

close and unattainable. 

still,

your fingers

type on. 

day six.

batiatus.
-

she watched the power

drive him mad

slowly warping 

his heart and mind,

eyes rolling back in head

returning with red

irises

wealth frothing from 

corners of lips,

it robbed him

of all he ever

was

and all

he ever

could have been. 

day five.

beautiful things. 
-

like a cold front 

on the precipice of spring,

the flowers curling

back into themselves

like a cd scratched,

stalling and skipping

right before

the climactic solo

like a voice lost 

in its prime,

cords dried,

silenced forever

you were just another 

beautiful thing,

cut off too soon.

day four.

small things.

-

a smile

a look

a word

a moment

a message

a chance,

not taken

it's the small things

that build us up

and break us down. 

day three.

what we are. 
-

we are not you

we are not quick embraces

in parked cars,

we are looks

across rooms.

we are not fevered kisses

and fumbling hands,

bodies knowing each other

before hearts or minds

ever do

we are not outlandish promises,

we are honest omissions

we are love

not in your hard

rocking

uncontrollable

fleeting

kind of way

we are slow

and steady 

and deep

and constant

marking days on calender

and making plans

and shyly smiling

from a distance. 

day two.

december honeydew. 
-

honeydew

makes the house

smell like summer

but without your laughter

ringing out 

from the balcony at night,

it could be december,

for all the warmth i feel. 

day one.

thelma and louise. 
-

he asked her if she'd ever seen

the movie thelma and louise.

told her she was like that car

going a hundred and five towards the cliff

and it might be far off,

but from the sky view

you could see what was coming,

if she didn't turn. 

joe's head

i had a dream last night, that we were somewhere and you knew the words to this song. we were the only ones in the room who did. that was important, somehow.

then i woke up and hated you again. it was nice while it lasted.

books, poetry, and love

Hello, hello. We'll take end of the title and move backwards from there.

First off, much love to you all. Everyone who reads, replies, and lurks. You are all awesomely awesome so don't say I never said it.

And secondly, I will be attempting the poetry month challenge twelve days too late. Don't judge. But do reply. :)

And finally -

Yep. Yeah. Yes indeed. 

It's just a little self-publishing site, nothing huge. But I'm so happy I could burst, so I thought I'd share. It's for sale, and of course I'll link, but just as a warning, you won't find anything there that isn't on this blog already. Just so you know.

But even if you take time to flip through the preview on the site and tell me what you think, I'd love it. 

words for you can be found here.

And that's all there is. For now. 

endless love. xx.

- Nadia.  

burning pages

The way you looked at burning pages reminded me of silver lights with the bulbs burnt out. Mother always said books were never meant for burning, but you were never one to listen, were you?

Page ash smells like the stories they used to tell, in a crumbled, broken kind of way. Like ocean mist and sand mixed with ash, flowers mixed with ash, the hollow of a voiceless scream - and ash.

Words were never meant to be lost.

negative twenty, baby.

if anyone cares. just thought i'd let you guys know. :)

wonderment.

a woman 

standing on the ledge of a building

does not wonder if it will hurt.

she wonders if you will miss her. 

a boy 

watching his father's car pull away

does not understand the word divorce.

he wonders what he did wrong.

a girl

with bruised thighs

does not understand that it wasn't her fault,

she only smells your breath on her cheek

a man 

who told you that you smell like rain

does not understand your empty drawer,

only that you left his ring.

and the sun still sets and rises,

without understanding

why the moon

stays so far away. 

the story of you

Honestly, no idea what this is. Not even sure if I like it. But why not? 

- 

How about this? Boy meets girl, and girl sees her father in his face. They kiss, and her heart soars back instead of forward while he grapples with her blouse. The first time he screams, it scares her, but she chalks it up to old habits.

First curse, first slap, first punch. All old habits, learned again and again. All the same.

Then a baby boy with his father's face comes, and he is no kind of beautiful to her, scarred and broken.

She leaves him by the church door for you to find.

delicate, fragile relationships

held by tenuous ties

liars walk on tightropes,
dancing in disguise.