a poetry e-zine










Lindsey Hobart

We pressed our bodies together
and danced in your parents’ kitchen
beneath the refrigerator light
until two in the morning.
You got tangled up in my metaphors
and our hands were woven together
like the book of poems
I wrote you last fall.
Kiss me, I said.
I want to set the world on fire
with our mouths and
I want the flame to
never burn out.
I spent nights
tracing words across your back
with shaking fingers
and my mornings writing you
love stories on coffee shop napkins.
You sucked the words from my bones
until my typewriter got dusty and
my pen’s ink dried up from the drought.
Break my heart, I said.
I need something to write about.


I liked you because you said things like, “Your eyes remind me of my childhood,” and every time I looked in the mirror I was reminded that you were seven once and used to cry when people said you had courage. You always thought that your hands were too small to hold the responsibility of being brave.

You never told me about the way you crumbled into your mother’s lap at your brother’s funeral, or that eight years later, you are still looking for arms to fall into. The problem is, you are so weighed down by being brave that you are afraid to let go. You are afraid of where being vulnerable might take you.

I liked you because you said things like, “I want to fuck you to the sound of your defenses collapsing,” and I knew that my secrets were safe with you because you wouldn't share your own. You never told me your middle name or why you are afraid of storms or why you always flinched when I held your hand too tightly.

I know that there are six freckles on your back in the shape of Orion’s belt. I know that you are the hunter, and I, the hunted. I know that you are afraid of thunder and the darkness. You believe bravery is turning your heart bulletproof. You believe valor is leaving everyone who’s ever tried to love you, but that is not courage. You thought you were strong but you couldn't tear down the walls you built out of brick and doubt. You never learned that not being afraid wasn't what bravery was really about.


You pack your bags
in the middle of the night,
burying pictures of the two of you
beneath your clothes that smell like
her vanilla perfume. You kiss her
goodbye in her sleep
when she’s whispering
a name that isn’t yours.
You leave the way you came:
Tomorrow morning
she will wake to frost on
her windowpanes
and an ache in her chest
that will never go away.

This is how you leave her:
you ruin her. You tear her
open and don’t sew her shut
with straight lines or sharp needles.
You leave her clawing at the
scars you left because it’s the
closest thing she has to feeling
you beneath her skin.

You ruin her grandly.
You carve a story into her bones
without touching her.
You taint her mouth
with your name,
and when she’s telling her daughter
about the first boy to break her heart,
you will be the one to get
stuck in her throat.

Lindsey Hobart is a seventeen year old writer, guitarist, and try-to-be singer from a New York town that’s as quiet as her voice. She’s a winning Slam Poet and her work has appeared in Canvas Lit. Her work can be found at www.heartofthebitter-mindofapoet.tumblr.com.

Copyright 2015  Chantarelle's Notebook