Poetry by Tate

              ​  Thunderchild7 CC



Track Marks to Me

              The bug bites
              Her peeling tattoo
                             are track marks to me

               Sunlit pupils
                             The lack of them
                                            are -

               The casual itching
               Fast talking
                               is pipe smoke again

               Long sweaters in summer,
                              Air conditioning,
                                             hiding what may be

    The bug bites
    Her peeling tattoo

​



Unrequited Love

I love her. I do.
I promise I do. 
Say it out loud to
convince them it’s true. 
Because it is true,
we love each other.
But before I knew love, 
she’d love another.    

In the beginning,
dream sequences began.
Perfection, black spots,
smiling, I ran.
They said I ran fast,
scoffed on their way out.
Faster that the lies
escaped from her mouth.

The same mouth I kissed 
nights before closed eyes.
The same mouth I kept,
held on to in time
for my heart to break.
Then, more after that.
Before holding on, 
was no going back.

Sometimes that mouth will
smell like the day of 
white sheets, plastic tubes,
blue, stick, rubber gloves. 
She didn’t wake up. 
Shouting what to do.
EMT phone calls.
Feet of snow dug through.

“I love you.” Come to.
The hospital bed. 
Debate on giving 
that kiss on her head.
I never forgave
her asking to go, 
asking for water,
no saying “hello

I love you, I do.
I do, I promise.”
“When can I leave? When
can I?” so chronic.
Her mouth was so cold,
so different now.
My mouth didn’t speak.
It didn’t know how.

Time passed, we got home
through the feet of snow.
Pretend it’s okay.
Pretend we’re alone. 
Then was when I met -
She introduced me,
“This is my true love.
Come here,” Let me see.

I saw it. I did.
I promise, I did. 
Tried to love it too
but couldn’t, didn’t.
No, love it, I mean. 
Still feel it in me.
I wanted so much 
to see what she sees.

White powders in nose,
sharp needles in veins,
to understand her,
her heart and her brain.
My way to her soul,
others way to hell,
others way to run.
Path I now know well.

So, I did try, I
pried her from her love.
Even with distance
I wasn’t enough.
Not Olivia,
Opal, Olive Vine.
Her love’s name is Opiate.
Opiates. Not mine.

The drug, my girl, the
unrequited love,
addiction, addicts
stone cold in their gloves.
We ran out, we ran
out of money, time,
out of food, people.
Not ever of lies.

Time passed, we left home
but we’ve been there since,
holding tightly each 
other, still on the fence.
I love her. I stood.
I promised I would. 
Don’t think I could give 
all that “her love” could.
 
I can still hear it,
her saying the name.
I can still feel it.
The pleasure, the game.
Curled beneath covers,
tangled up in hair,
inseparable.
We’ll always be there.

I love her. I do.
I promise I do.
She loves another.
I wish I could too.

​

Tate’s writing reflects the voices of the unheard. She uses her privileges, experiences, and witnessing to write for only the oppressed communities that she can ethically call her own. Tate’s work includes topics such as heroin addiction, self-harm, eating disorders, sex work, queer love/life, womanhood, etc. Her aim is to bring a more true reflection of these lives that are often stereotyped, generalized, misconceived, misunderstood, and even hurt. The hope is that this art will promote connection, education, understanding, and social change. You can find excerpts of Tate’s work, music, and modeling on her instagram/twitter (@rosewetcave). 

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