I Saved You a Seat Backstage.
Welcome to the page where The Word Alchemist was born.
Feelings That Dyed
Published in 2023 by The Half and One Magazine.
The first time my words found a home outside of me.
shades and silhouettes.
transparent, translucent, opaque.
a little girl in a haze of confusion.
there’s no escape door.
for she’s bound by blood.
blotched with pain and emotional abuse.
brushed with heavy blue strokes.
smeared with black smudges.
discoloration flooding her blushed cheeks.
a dullness falling amongst the painting.
no matter how many times he tries to
touch up the pigments,
there’s simply no amount of dye
that can cover up the peeling linens.
acrylic tears stain his eyes.
bold hues and feelings fade to watercolor.
verbal shards flake from her mind and seep into her heart.
gloss is what you use to fake marble.
she weeps for you.
but your feelings are masked with clay:
burned, hardened, and still.
over time you molded into something else.
but she has too.
her oils have blended into a new type of scheme.
her colors no longer run down the canvas.
she’s an aesthetic masterpiece who learned to fight.
and now she’s tracing her new life, without you.
tender gravity
Some men come with a name, not a warning label.
here she comes and there you are.
it’s a wild thing when you stop looking—
stop chasing, stop texting, aching for it.
because that’s never how It happens.
it’s a slow-buzzed, burn. it looks like
the way you pulled me in and dipped me.
how you drove me home
and didn’t grope me to come inside—
how i said you couldn’t kiss me yet,
and I watched your mouth drip with desire
every time our eyes met..
we sat on the couch
and touched without touching—
the space between us shifting,
a quiet gravity pulling us closer
without either of us naming it.
i’ve been waiting so long to exhale,
and this…
this could be it.
God’s cursive is written all over you,
and He knows i’m craving
for you to trace me with tender fingers.
hold me with safe hands.
Enough is Enough.
When I drew the line and stopped making room for what was breaking me.
stop it.
stop dating people who bring out the chaos in you.
stop liking who reminds you of every time you’ve fallen apart, hyper focusing on everything that isn’t who you are. how are you not tired?
as a vacuum seal, you let them drain you of every inch of air you’ve had for yourself. left with nothing but a flat, bubbled surface to breathe through. you’re stretching, gasping.
how long does it take until you poke holes, inhaling deep as the ocean, exhaling strong as earthquakes to remind you that you are more?
i hope one day, you breathe in so violently that the world vibrates, shaking you by the shoulders into who you become. grabs you with force, and with love. because they’re needed in both places.
chaos has no power where acceptance lies.
help me find the meaning of that—with gentle hands.
i’m so tired of callouses. and a heavy heart, i can’t carry what i don’t hold myself.
“when Innocence and Experience meet”
She needed grace, not a lecture.
when i look back at 16 year old me,
all i would do is sit her down.
hold her, hold out her hand,
and raise it to her eye-level:
then, grab her thumb and put it in her mouth.
because it’s okay to lean on yourself for comfort.
you will, more times than you’ll want.
at times it’ll get lonely, but you’ve always
had it. you’re a fearless warrior in
a den of hungry lions, a canny mouse
in a forest of snakes and coyotes.
then, tug at her pointer finger, aiming
it at her heart, reminding her that it’s still
beating and it’s allowed to bleed for
every pain that she’s endured. in anger,
in sadness, in disgust, in agony. you’re
allowed to feel, you deserve to be happy.
fuck counting trials in the presence of
the moon and bask in the daylight.
those are the kisses that will cleanse
your soul, lift up your face.
she throws her middle finger up,
she has the right idea, however,
i pull it downward. we’ve learned
to count our blessings, and we love
our Father. it’s the demons down
below that we have to be cautious of,
not afraid. what your mother told you
is a partial truth. you’ll come to learn
as you grow into the woman you’re
meant to be. she’s so proud of you.
she sticks her ring finger out to me
with stars in her eyes, and i tuck it
down, closing her hand in a fist.
telling her to keep it that way until
she knows for sure the man is worth
the most sacred promise of them all.
stop looking for love because you
won’t find it, and even if it comes for
you, be clever. objects in the rear view
mirror are much closer than they appear.
and they’ll rear end you every time.
finally, i wrap her pinkie in mine. promising
her the life she’s always dreamed of. the
life she wants her daughter to have. it may
not be anything special at first, but we’re only
twenty-three. you learn a lot in eight years.
when twenty-five strikes you won’t have
everything figured out, and i know that’s
disheartening, but you’ll be on your way.
the journey of falling into yourself. it
feels like falling on your face at first,
but we both know how we like taking
the long way around. the hard part is
almost over. now promise me you’ll
trust yourself this time. kiss it, seal it,
in Jesus name you claim it.
Dusty Windows
The day I opened the curtains.
i’m bleeding myself dry,
no more white wine,
or chalked up white lines
to try to find a feeling.
talk to the sky while
i watch the stars lie,
i won’t sleep tonight,
eyes melt with the ceiling.
the world has color,
it’s not just a bummer,
maybe pop out midsummer,
i’m no longer dreaming.
sweating out the toxins,
i’ll be exhausted, but
at least i’m not haunted,
there’s a reason for all this.
Resurrection Power
The day I stopped calling dead what God was still watering.
and if there’s anything i want to do
during the end times it’s to be her.
sleep doesn’t find me kindly, but
the thoughts of what could’ve been,
what has and will be, swallow me.
it settles in my stomach leaving
a queasiness, like butterflies. no
longer is it a sickness. they flutter
back up my throat letting a beauty
escape that i never thought i’d find
again.
when i’m finally living my dreams:
to every boy who got what they
wanted and left me in need;
every snake that wrapped comfortably
around my arm then bit me;
every helping hand that left me
hanging when i needed it most;
every family member who expected
me to keep them above water while
they watched me drown;
every single person that doubted
me and threw my traumas around
like a tetherball;
you will get nothing. only the shell
of the cocoons where the butterflies
rose from. you won’t even so much
hear anything but my name. and then,
only then will you feel it. the ghost of
who i used to be. even though she was
good, this girl will be better.
and she’ll fight—for herself—for every
time her hands were tied behind her
back. every night alone she cried,
begged for the caterpillars to shift.
each day she ceased to sleep.
every time she thought she
couldn’t to find out she did.
even though the world is ending,
i will continue fighting everyday
to be her. because i am.
Before You Head Out…
As much as I love helping other people bring their ideas to life, I also hope to spend the rest of mine building what belongs to me…
Poetry is where it all began. Before websites, before branding, before copywriting—it was the first place I learned words could heal, connect, and leave someone feeling a little less alone. If you happen to know a publisher—or someone who could point me in the right direction—I’d be honored if you sent them my way. I have a feeling there are still many stories left for me to tell.
And wherever life finds you today, I hope you remember this:
Never let today’s circumstances convince you that tomorrow’s promises aren’t coming. What’s seen doesn’t define your future. What’s unseen is only the beginning of what your future holds.
Thank you for spending a little time with my words.
I hope our paths cross again.
Until next time,
— Lindsey