Eve Thomas

Edition XXIII

Its Hard to Breathe Right Now - by Eve Thomas (Photo by Eve Thomas)Photo credit: Eve Thomas

Its Hard to Breathe Right Now

By Eve Thomas

It’s hard to breathe, right now. Feeling your skin against mine, this is a new adventure.
I’m falling, and love won’t catch me this time,
this is something else. This is raw, this is desire.
And I don’t know you; but now, I know parts of you. I’ve been handed the privilege,
to have you, and to have you take me,
take me anywhere you see fit. Anywhere, anytime.
And you, you’ve seen me,
completely, for all I physically am. Every touch,
every move you’ve made along me, on me, in me,
every rhythmic motion, you’ve loved me
with your body. It’s hard to breathe, right now.
I’ve allowed you here, in this moment,
even though I’ve only known you through the feel of your lips,
on mine. The touch of your fingers, your hands,
over my back,
and the friction of our bodies against a cold, hard wall.
You’ve touched every insecure, fragile piece of me
and put me back together in pleasure,
again and again,
and again, and again. This is
new to me; I’ve touched a stranger,
and he has known me in the deepest of ways.
You, lover, are all skin, and nothing but.
You, lover, have allowed me to forget,
the ones who’ve hurt me, the sorrows of my heart.
It’s hard to breathe, right now. It’s hard to describe what this is,
I’m out of breath, now.
We’re done.


Edition XXIV

Dear Anxiety - by Eve Thomas (Photo by Eve Thomas)Photo credit: Eve Thomas

Dear Anxiety

By Eve Thomas

One day,
weary, weak heart, you will have the things you long for in this world;
one day, my dear, faithful heart. Keep praying
for the good of this life to feed your soul. One day,
sweet, lonely heart, you will no longer find urgency
to build walls that stop you from loving, from really loving.
One day, my oh, so childish heart,
you will give yourself away to another heart and never again
your body to another stone cold man that doesn’t want you. One day,
the desires that fill you, and the hurt that kills you,
all of this will be used to flourish you, so that
one day, you, will love.
You, my heart
will be loved, one day.

And some day, mind,
you will rest. The thoughts that fill you
to the core of your being
will end. Someday, restless mind,
the mistakes and troubles of the past will cease
to keep you up at night. Someday,
the unpleasant things of this world will stop
running through the valleys of your aura
and someday,
the thoughts that make you feel blue on a beautiful day
will be gone for good, so that you
can someday be at peace.
Someday, the anxious, unsettled,
rowdiness will be over, and
one day, everything will be okay


Edition XXVI

Blame it on Rebellion - by Eve Thomas (Photo by Dina Al Bayed)Photo credit: Dina Al Bayed

Blame it on Rebellion

By Eve Thomas

Blame it on rebellion.

The drinks, the cigarettes, the men,

blame it on a broken heart, that’s been stepped on, spat on,

denied and never loved on.

Blame it on the emptiness,

that was burned by flames of burden,

into my chest.

The drinks,

the chugs of sweet, sensual,

poison,

down a throat that’s been hurting,

crying. Alcohol that fills the empty holes in a heart,

that’s been hurting.

The cigarettes,

are symbols of the love I once lost,

the kind that messed it up

for the rest of them. A symbol for the man

that took out all the good in me,

smoked out my soul, and discarded me,

like his very last cigarette.

And the men explain themselves

as they come and go,

one by one, in and out the door.


Edition XXVIII

I Still Carry You - By Eve Thomas (Photo by Annie Spratt)Photo credit: Annie Spratt

I Still Carry You

By Eve Thomas

I still carry pieces of you in my pockets
You run poetry in circles around my heart, around my body.
I’m missing you, and this is the reason why I write you out in this
verse without rhythm, because
you and I, we never had rhythm. We only had rough,
bloody chaotic, the “no rules,” kind of
passion. I carry the bits of you,
that I took from you
with me, everywhere I go.
I still carry the rose petal you playfully handed me
when no one was looking, because
what was so laughable to you,
to me, was a small opening,
to give you pieces of me.
Do you carry the parts of me
you took from me
every time you kissed me, and every time you held me and all the times you
called just because you missed me.
Giving you myself, the very morals, the goodness,
the parts of me that made me who I am,
do you carry the parts of me
that made me the woman you
made love to and pushed
away
over and over again—
with you as you go through life?
I still carry the parts of you I shouldn’t; like the memory of you
playing with my hair each time I told you stories of my childhood,
or the time I told you that I want you to make me happy
and you promised that you would.
I still carry the piece of paper that held your name
and it still carries the scent of the flowers you paired along with it.
I’d like to believe
you still carry the pieces of me
you took from me. You took my love, and a chunk of my heart
with you when you left
and I pray
that I one day
can grow back the parts of me you took away.


Edition XXX

Gentle, But You Weren't - by Eve Thomas (Photo by Jandri Angelo Aguilor)Photo credit: Jandri Angelo Aguilor

Gentle, But You Weren’t

By Eve Thomas

I would let you lay a hand and every kind of touch
on me.
The gentle, passionate,
but even the rough,
harsh and the completely, unholy kind;
I’d let you push me around and pull the strings that moved my arms to do your will
and my body, to do your bidding; you pulled on a string that
pulled on my heart beat, whispering the names
of each flower you handed me before we made love
every day, or any day you’d have the time to see me.
You’ve pulled the strings that chased the tears down my face when
my ears heard the harsh, unsavory tones and shades of words
that would never be said, even to the vilest of men. Strings that held on to the knife
you’d occasionally stab me with
each time you pushed, pulled, shoved and
held me down, against my will, but
submissive to yours.
It wasn’t sexy.
I wouldn’t call whatever this is
that we have, abusive. No,
addiction seems more like it.
I want the thing that I shouldn’t, the thing that is
so obviously, wrong for me.
I want this, but I don’t want this.
I’ll dance with you when there is no music,
anytime, any day
and it’s just our bodies moving to the
outrageously loud, silence. I’ll
drink and eat whatever this is,
even when it’s tasteless. And
I’ll be with you in every way, let you
take me however.
With love, without it, make love
or don’t. Just handle me with care,
but you rarely do. My heart has seen more floor
than it has beaten in this lifetime, because it still cries, after being glued
to the sole of your feet, it still cries
your name at night, calling and longing
for something, but dreading whatever is coming.


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