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Tell me I am made up of more than fears,
that when I run it is toward and not away from,
that these are nerves like
jagged wilderness, not electrocution.
I don’t want to be a victim,
a softness, a shatter.
An open wound.
Tell me how to pull the lion out of
my rib cage and set it free,
how to dig out all the bits of me
that still shake like unsettled teacups.
Tell me I’m not a tragedy,
not a comedy, not a lonely
too afraid to put her heart where
her mouth is.
If I bleed let it be from my own lips,
from the quake of standing the gained ground,
and swallowing the
knots and second guesses.
I don’t want to be what you see
when you think potentially.
Tell me, tell me, that I am already
who I’m supposed to be.

am kennedy, “you have so much potential” (via siilentiary)

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Pocket watches and cold stars,
you are not all the things
you have been given,
please put them down.
In the leftover rooms are
bone sliver and bruisy rings,
ghosts of lovers past.
How many beds
must you abandon?
All but the last.

am kennedy, “Hoarding”

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The slide,
warm rose against finger tips
hold too tight to thorns,
the scream presses up against the ceiling,
scrapes at the crown molding.

Blush from head to heel,
we melt in all the places touching,
practice tasting the thin skin of the wrist,
where all the potential is hiding.

On the chestplate,
on the careful teeth skimming up thighs,
the fuck is only cacophony,
but the love,
the love is in the eyes.

am kennedy, “If intimacy were easy, we’d all be awake in the garden”

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What is a glass, a bottle,
a throat and belly burn
in the wake of all this cold water?
If this is a rescue,
which one of us is in distress?
I digress, regress, remiss, dismiss,
it’s just that the way the sun rose this morning
looked more like opportunity than light-scour.
My love, a burden,
and you, the witness,
and we, and we,
swallow down the burn
as if it makes us

am kennedy, “Solidarity”
(via siilentiary)

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Let me, says the starving girl.
She scoops from her heartstrings at the dinner table
and serves dessert.
Who is hungry when there’s so much to fear,
when there’s all the soft, supple redness
of the chest left to give?
Every night we sit around the table
and gorge ourselves sick on love that is not our own.
The starving girl says,
this is how we make a home.

am kennedy, “Hunger Birds”

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Mariana, you may be the deepest trench,
but there is still life in you.
Whatever is resting in the pit of your chest is
foreign, strange,
but maybe this change is okay.

The pressure is crushing, relentless,
may we beg forgiveness for the conditions
in which you had to suffer.

Titanic, the way the pain drops,
oceanic, the way you swallow and swallow
and do not stop.

You cannot teach what you have learned,
and maybe now you must imagine the value
is in your belly, your heart, your throat,
the way you learned to sink and float.

Power in the lilac blue of your skin,
the tred of all that sticky sea foam,
you meet the land and sky and,
do not choke, do not choke.

am kennedy, “Mariana: broken bottle letters to the sea floor”

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Let it go, you know,
that woman has never tucked you
into anything so safe as a bed.
She said, i love you,
but that’s not what she meant.
The cement in the bottom of your heart
means that sometimes you
sink faster than you swim,
but then again the brine
tastes better than tears,
better than all the fears
she read you as bedtime stories.
You’re a bad buoy but a good sailor,
a turn of tides that would
make a grown man weep
could he see how carefully you keep
your head above water.

am kennedy, “The anchor tattoo”