I developed a habit of stockpiling letters in between the binding of my Bible, only half hoping God would be able to translate my wayward cursive. Some days, I leave them scattered on your bed side table so that maybe I will not have to keep whispering my confessions into the back of your neck at four am. I flush at the thought of someone hearing my inward sins as easily as understanding the movements of my pen. I quiver at the idea of forever and fatal flaws. I hope you understand I do not think myself weak but sometimes I do shake like a leaf on an autumn nights. There are days I don’t think I have the power to get out of bed. Please, do not hold anything against me but your body. Please, understand I am still collecting bits of heroes in my pockets so that one day I can build a better me. I know it would be easier to walk out of this abandoned church, blame it on the creator, but I hope you realize sometimes the softest prayer sounds like the holiest of choirs.
b.e.fitzgerald
My life is a series of glances that I should have held a second longer.
b.e.fitzgerald
Find myself retracing our battle steps in my bed every night. I still sleep on your war path. My laugh lines still look like self inflicted scars. My legs still buckle at the mere thought of being able to kiss you bloody again. I am a deserter seeking refuge in your bullet wounds. I am a soldier tying your tattered scarf around my bayonet. I am a veteran with a purple heart. I still wonder why you left.
b.e.fitzgerald
Open the door. Hear my kettle cry. I want to warm your toes again. Do not make me kiss your answering machine goodnight anymore. The last time you talked to me I swear I heard a mountain summit in the back of your throat. I miss the way you used to miss me. Turn around. Don’t walk away. Even though I would be content to stare at the back of your neck for weeks. Even though I could write sonnets about your hairline. Even now. Even after all this time.
b.e.fitzgerald
i do not believe that this is the end but there is something about this night that makes me want to hold you like gravity holds the moon. you are the galaxy. and if the world were to disappear into you i doubt i would mind.
b.e.fitzgerald
I am a misinformed martyr, willing to die for a cause that no longer exists. Somehow, even though waiting for you is like singing hymns to an empty pew, my palms are still open. They will always be reaching towards you. Sometimes, it feels like I am making love to a cracked mirror, an altered version of myself. The morning after an encounter I pick thorns out of my ribcage and find lashes on my calves, Still, I place you on an altar. I idolize you. You are my anti-hero. The bringer of my end. My own personal cup of hell. The apocalypse begins at the curve of your lips. Yet, every time I see that grin cut across your face I swear I am in front of the savior. Somehow, you are still salvation and I doubt there will ever be a day that I stop kneeling towards Mecca.
b.e.fitzgerald
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Don't know if I'm finished with this yet...but I like it so here ya go
Most days, I wonder what is left of me. What shreds of skin still remain to be stumbled upon. I fear that maybe I have undressed in front of two way mirrors too often and that maybe I haven’t left any secrets, even myself. What if I am another America? Have the pioneers already come? Has the gold already been found? Have I been conquered? My words, my feelings, are they now easily explained in textbooks, mysteries solved? Can past lovers now easily dissect my short comings as if I were a lab rat? Am I merely another moon? Another myth solved? Another magicians trick? Maybe this is how the gods felt when their lightning bolts were demoted to electric matter. Maybe our secrets make us matter. Maybe they make us real. Maybe I am thinking too much. Maybe I always will. Some nights though, I think that there are still parts of me left to be discovered, fossils still waiting to be brushed off. Some nights, I know I’m not finished yet. Some nights, it doesn’t hurt to grow up.
b.e.fitzgerald
Every human has their tides, there is no way of winning against the currents. Trust me I have tried. I have waited on the shoreline with thumb tacks and good intentions in hopes of pinning lovers down for just a moment longer. I have watched friends and family drift through my fingers as I idly grabbed at the ocean, trying to hold on to any part of them I could grasp. Pocket holes. Curly hair. Wrist watches. Sometimes I even press conch shells to my ear, hoping to hear the lost voices caught amongst the coils. If the ocean has taught me anything though, it is that nothing is final and everything is permanent. That sometimes we find the ships, years later, only to discover they no longer sail. We are all wrecks beating against our pasts. Let go. Let go. Let swim. Let live.
b.e.fitzgerald
My favorite spotlight is the bulb that sits in my refrigerator. There is a certain way it catches my hunger, the ugliness of my 3 AM gluttony. The only other act that has ever come close illuminating me so truthfully is lying next to you in bed. Before, I had pulled blankets over myself like cheap paint, Babels wall, barriers on top of bullet holes. There is a honesty in nakedness. Forgive me, I have mixed up my words again, a nakedness in honesty. I used to be uncomfortable with the secrets I hid under quilts. Other lovers saw me in pieces. An elbow, 5 rivets of my spine, the corners of my hips. Never all of me, never at the same time. None of them had ever managed to completely unravel me. Not like you. There is a certain way you hinge on to me. You expose me, even the parts I would rather only display in the darkness of night. You let me dance in it. Feast on it. Learn from it. You are the refrigerator light.
b.e.fitzgerald(Source: thelyricaldiaries)
If monstrous waves come to tear us apart tonight, I want to tell you something. Thank you, for teaching me how to play rummy on my grandmas cellar floor. Thank you for never mistaking my crossed arms for boarded up doors. Thank you from here to there. Thank you for loving me on my bright days and for still loving me when the sun wasn’t there. I hope that you hear me over the hurricane cries. I hope you know that every time I prayed for stronger tides to pull me away they always brought me back to your front stoop. The salt water always helps me find my way back to you.
b.e.fitzgerald
Our bodies fit together like chainsaw teeth to a tree. You cut me down with rusty machinery. Wear plaid and make me pancakes. Let’s live like wild men, you and me.
b.e.fitzgerald(Source: thelyricaliaries)
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B.E.Fitzgerald
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Just something little for y'all...Sorry I havent posted anything substatial in a while
“When you saw her later that day did you wipe my blood off of your hands and onto the back of her dress? Did you kiss her with the same crooked mouth that said to me “It’s not you…It’s just…her.” Does she even know my name? Do you pretend that she was your first kiss? Did you play her the song you wrote for our anniversary, only to exchange the names for the chorus. I still have never heard it. I bet she thought it was lovely. I bet you threw the pictures and postcards and the presents in the back of your closet, praying she never took up a curiosity for dark corners. I am not even worthy enough to hang amongst your skeletons. I wonder if you still have me on speed dial. I wonder if she took my place as number 6. I doubt I am even in your contact list. I doubt I even cross your mind. When you walk into your new home after the honeymoon, I hope you remember the house you swore you would build for me one day. I hope you remember the wrap-around porch. The matching rocking chairs. The blue mail box. I hope you remember my birthday, our first date, my favorite song. I hope you remember the boy you used to be. I hope you realize you are now the man you promised me that you would never become. I hope you remember that we were once in love.”
-b.e.fitzgerald
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Sometimes I fear I am the Taylor Swift of writing...
I JUST GET SO ANGSTY
“Tonight, the crickets are playing their Titanic deck waltz, this is the sinking song of summer. The last masterpiece. The trees are starting to fold in on themselves and their leaves glow red like flares, signaling the end. We mistake them for fireworks. Long ago, we were taught by our mothers to pile on the layers. Socks over sweaters over hats. “Do not become as bare as the landscape, darling.” Donning masks, we try to disguise the monsters that lurk beneath. The pale skin and rigid bones. We surely must be more than the skeletons for sale at the market. The skies are even cloudless and yet we do not dare count the stars. Too many. Too vast. Too honest. Instead we fill our coffee cups in a counter act. Our cream the Milky Way and the sugar our shooting stars. We whisper wishes into the mug when finished. “Please, let Spring come again” you pray. Child, do not fear. Fall has made even the bravest men feel this way, even the tallest trees have their season. Do not curse Mother nature, even She has her reasons.”
-b.e.fitzgerald
A song I wrote instead of showering.
“Do not hunt for me in the back of bookstores, I no longer need to trace their spines to craft my own back bone. Do not wait for me at the station anymore. I am already miles down the track. I will not show. I don’t know if I’ll see you again. I can you kiss you goodbye but not better. Do not turn down my side of the bed. I will not creep in beside you tonight or the next. You are alone. I don’t think I’m sorry. Take my absence as a token. The back of my boots are all I can give you for now.”
-b.e.fitzgerald
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