Remember This

I will unwrap all of me
and lay myself naked
at your door,
but remember this:
I will bite back.
With every promise
you have broken
and every lie
you have told,
I will bite back.
But if you would meet me,
naked and aching,
I would give back every promise
I have broken
and swallow every lie
I have told.
I would give back,
everything I have sworn
and the little I have left,
to the one brave enough
to bare their filthy soul
next to mine.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

I Won’t Always Be Me

I won’t always walk gently.
Sometimes I will stomp, and I will rage,
and my footsteps will shake
the mountains of love
you have heaped upon my earth.
I won’t always speak kindly.
Sometimes I will spit, and I will scream,
and the venom from my tongue will poison
the oceans of love
you have brought to my shores.
I won’t always live passionately.
Sometimes I will hide, and I will cry,
and the blackness from my soul will darken
the gardens of love
you have planted at my door.
I won’t always be me.
Sometimes I will be the very thing
I have been fighting against,
and it will swallow me, and it will laugh,
and I will climb out of the depths of it all
to meet you gently, and kindly,
and passionately again.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

 

 

Picture Source: Pinterest

It Never Heard That

I don’t want to remember exactly how I was or who I was before you,
and I know that isn’t what this world wants to hear,
but it never listened to the beat of my broken heart
or caught the pain in my eyes anyway.
It never heard the way I hated myself when dawn hit my window
and sliced its way through the mountains of maybe next time
I won’t hurt myself, but for now just cut these colours
easy enough to taste something less bitter than I am.
It never heard that. It never listened to the way I could gulp and howl
under the light of a full moon, a new moon, of any moon,
of a sick and sculpted summer moon that hung above the grime
I pretended not to notice. It never heard that. It never listened
to my voice calling out from the dark when every last light in me
had been dimmed, it never came to chase the shadows or the monsters
that waited to lunge the second the lights went out.
It was never there to shine hope into my darkened heart or hear the cries
of my soiled soul. It never heard that. I never knew that silence
with you whispered the most extraordinary tales, and sitting
in the way of sunsets with you shifted the ugly inside of me,
and burst beautiful rays into the dark of my eyes.
I don’t want to remember who I was when I was without you,
but I do, and I will, and perhaps remembering how cold it was in the dark
will never let me forget how I can hear the warmth in the light.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

‘She Will Rise’ Shirts

So the brilliant Human Unlimited has designed a gorgeous t-shirt with my quote on it and I am super stoked! The shirt sold out on the first day last week but a Surprise shipment has been added today and this one includes youth sizes. Check it out!

Shewillrisetee.jpg
Surprise shipment! Back in stock! Including youth sizes! Last batch for the year! Don’t miss! $24 adult and $20 youth! Today only – Ships Free!
get it @ http://bit.ly/she-will-rise

Gifting pro tip! Pair the shirt with the book from Nicole Lyons that inspired the design! Available @ http://bit.ly/UncertainWorld

A Cosmic Disappointment

I drink

and I scream

and I curse the stars,

and still you are here,

blaring in my fucking veins.

Nicole Lyons 2017

Pandering

Sometimes I feel as if
I am pandering to savages,
sealing my soul and selling it
for an innocent kiss
or a quick fix.
And then I push and I shove,
and I make my way
to the front of the line
to buy it all back
from the wasted souls
who look an awful lot like me.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

The Keeper of Time

I swear to God, I am not proud of it,
this wishing and unwishing,
and the wishing and unwishing of more,
as if that could make these things be something
or nothing, or take them all away,
or even add a maybe to them all.
This wishing and unwishing are killing me.

If I could go back and take it all back,
or change it all I would,
God help me, I would.
There are so many things I would change
and so many things I couldn’t,
and wouldn’t, and would never want to,
but if I started to change one thing,
I would never stop.

I would wish to be the keeper of time
to whisper my secrets to you,
and we would sit beyond time and I would tell you

You can change this. I have kept your time.
I have kept your seconds.
I have kept your wishes and your memories
and your love here, in this notebook,
and I give it back to you now
with an eraser and a pencil.
And I would look there, on your notebook,
on its dog-eared edges and its faded cover,
and I would wish for brighter colours and
I would say to you,

Here is the notebook of your life,
the notebook of your time,
and I am giving it back to you.
I am giving you this one pass,
as the keeper of your time
and the keeper of your sins,
I give them back to you.

I give you back your dreams,
rewrite them.

Write it all, and don’t write it
as if you were afraid

of what people would think.

Don’t write it as if
you haven’t been given a second chance
upon a first chance,

because you haven’t.
But still, write it.


I, as the keeper of your time,

and the chronicler of your memories,
give you this page and this pencil,
and I ask you to write without fear,
without consequence,
without hope or sorrow,
I ask you to write, so write.

I can not reset time,
I can not make things right
as you see them be,
because your right is wrong
in everyone else’s eyes,
in cosmic eyes that stare down at us all.

Don’t read the rewrite,
and I will keep you secretly,
and give you this page and this pencil to write
all of the things you wanted to write,
all of the things you wanted to keep,
all of the things you wanted to change,
all of the things that are time and are not,
and will not or never be,
and I ask you to write it solidly,
without despair, without guilt, without question.

Write your rewrite that I can never grant you,
and sign your name to the bottom of it, proudly.
For there is nothing wrong with a rewrite,
in this life or in others, there is nothing wrong
with wanting a rewrite, even if we love
our stories and the way they began
with a once upon a time and ended
with a happily ever after,
because you are many stories.
You are a great book of love, and loss, and light,
and the wisdom of your pages, between your pages
could never be rewritten into the stories that are.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Bring Your Wishes

It is empty in here.
This place that once
felt the fire of falling stars
is now cold in his fading light.
So I shall invite you in
and ask you to bring your wishes,
and perhaps the both of us
will burst like suns again.

 

© Nicole Lyons 2017

Under Your Bed

I have loved as I have never been loved,
and in loving as I have never been,
I have held the hands of gods
and laid weeping before the closed fists
of disappointment dripping with my own blood
and barely skimming forgiveness.
Perhaps it will come to me,
this love, a love, beneath your bed,
behind the curtains or under you mother
and her Sunday night dinner,
the one I was invited to
before the devil tickled my back
and your angels scorched my belly.
I wear these marks well,
my kisses from heaven
and my brushes with hell,
yet here I am on my knees again,
looking for the love you dropped under your bed.
I know it’s here somewhere,
amongst the monsters and the memories,
making friends with the lonely socks
missing their mates, and reaching
inside the crumpled wrappers,
the pink ones that burst the stars
upon your tongue before he broke the door down
and taught you all the ways you should never love.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

I Told Him No

He told me how brave I was,
writing my story into a sea of stigma,
how my words, my voice,
would break waves and save souls,
a lighthouse for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how beautiful I was,
smiling sadly with eyes like burnt moons
hiding secrets behind the sun,
a gravitational pull for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me how special I was,
tempting great men with good faith,
a harlot born from Satan’s tongue,
a perfect delusion for the mentally ill,
the distraught, the unloved.

I told him no.

He told me he was mentally ill,
distraught, unloved,
in dire need of desperate release,
and salvation would only come on his knees,
shaking to the sound of my voice.

I told him no.

He told me how sorry I would be
when he twisted my words like arms
and shot arrows through the bull’s-eye
he had painted on my chest.

I told him no.

I am not the voice of a saviour,
nor the hint of a wish,
I am fucking dangerous,
coming to claw the truth
from behind a liar’s lips.

 

© Nicole Lyons 2017