There is dirt
under my fingernails
and tread marks
across my heart,
but
oh
if I could be saved
by anyone but myself
it would be you.
It is always you
with your unassuming
effervescent
you-ness.
My lungs collapse
at the thought
of you.
My skin sings
at the possibility
of being touched by you.

Michelle K., You and Your You-ness.

Your poems feel like home. Whenever I read them I feel less empty and alone. I'm grateful for your existence. Xx

Anonymous

I AM SO GRATEFUL FOR YOU and everyone who is kind and thoughtful. I am so spoiled with great followers

But seriously “your poems feel like home” is the best compliment kiss me

How do you survive?

You just do.
There is no other choice,
no other viable options.

You throw yourself into it,
head first
and make a mess along the way.
Gain a few too many scars,
break some things,
mend others.

Eventually,
you find yourself with
a couple of friends
and a few precious tools.

You just have to.
You will.

Michelle K., How Do You Recover? pt. 7

Do not write poems
about my lips.
Two soft slivers of peaches
created for you
and you alone
to kiss.
Omit the fact that they are
fire-blown
and spit bullets.

Do not write poems
about my hips.
Thick flesh
devours you.
Please.
They break for sons,
bend for daughters,
I hold a universe of my own
between them.

Do not write poems
about my hands.
Do not tell fools
they were molded
perfectly
to fit into yours.
You will bend your fingers
to interlace with my
unmoving mountains.

Do not write poems
about me,
do not inspire myths
to defend my honor
or inspire my femininity.

I am more
than your simple
uninspired
words.

Michelle K., Do Not Write Poems…

Some days
you will fight
and it will
never
be enough.

Some days
you will crawl
calm as the sea.

You are allowed
to sink into your bed.
You are allowed
to jump into the fire.

I have yet
to outrun myself,
no matter
how often I have tried.

Michelle K., Changing Seasons.

My throat will always
burn
from engulfed flames
I spit fire
I spit acid
my words aim to kill.

There will always be scars.
Some things
cannot
should not
be removed.
Some things
remind us
why we have survived,
why we keep
surviving.

My fingers will always
shake
but I am not a weak girl.
My stomach will always churn

but I am not a weak girl.

Michelle K., Weakness.

I always get really frustrated when I find poems that are obviously plagiarized

on one hand I want to scream and yell and message the person to remove it immediately

but on the other hand I feel so presumptuous (even though in the past I’ve been right) esp. when other people haven’t messaged me about it first.

soooo if you see something that looks like a poem of mine, please report it and let me know?

lookforwords:

So incredibly happy with this

This shit
this shit is cool

People seriously
underestimate
the dedication recovery
demands.
You cannot avoid it,
nor can you speed through it.
You must
take your time.
Your path may alter,
your rest stops may change,
but you will be
stronger
for it.

Michelle K., How do You Recover? pt. 6.

You should stop
while you can
trying to find peace
in the sloping
nothingness
between your thighs.
Stop writing prayers
singing hallelujahs
building temples
for the concave valleys
of your flesh.
These are not things
to cherish,
these are not
goals to be had.
The burns and wounds
will become
thick knots on your
tree trunked limbs
and you will relish in the
rings of wrinkles
your fingers
will allow.
You will flourish
in the years
that were once
guaranteed
to be stolen.
You will grow towards the sun.

Michelle K., Allowed.