case you were wondering
It's like the speeding car
that hits at forty miles per hour
and sends you through the air
crashing into the windshield,
up and over, landing face first
into the asphalt.
It is the low tone of your voice
echoing like wooden heels down
an empty hallway filled with
crappy tile floors and flickering
Repeats over and over
leaves me bitter and broken
against the river's chill.
It is mostly how I don't hate you.
It is a conclusion drawn long ago,
over caffeine kisses and long sleeves
drawn to protect, pulled to not expose
what was left on a table, across a bridge.
It is the silence in my inbox,
the inevitable letdown.
You left on
your t-shirt, your
boxers, your guilt,
and sat like a sullen fruit
on the edge of my bed, painted
into the backdrop of a summer
afternoon, dreary, with your mouth
turned down, with your eyes
focused out the window.
Reflections on missing things
How can a girl survive a heart attack
and not have a heightened sense of
everything? The smell of evening is
a thick cloud of burnt wood.
Every light bulb pierces the cornea,
every taste bud explodes. How can
a girl with no feet, one leg and
two missing hands wake up in the
morning and eat her breakfast? Brush
her teeth, use eyeliner, get off?
How can a girl that hangs herself in
her closet feel the weight's release?
Taylor Emily Copeland is a poet from
Eastern Pennsylvania. Her poems have recently appeared in Hobo
Camp Review, Thick With Conviction, Chantarelle's Notebook,
Drown In My Own Fears and The Active Voice. In 2010, she was
nominated twice for Best of the Net and also was nominated for
Best of the Web. She loves the band Paramore, reads obsessively,
likes pink things, drinks too much coffee, drives aimlessly and
falls in love too easily. She is unashamed of all of it.