cassidy martin

a small body filled with love and melancholy.

my other blogs & projects:

slowly we unfurl as lotus flowers
roasted : coffee cassidy
semana : a poetry collaboration


a blend of shame, regret, comfort, nostalgia, hurt & want —

I think about the way I have been pulled into so many soft moments,

the way I have adored each lover as the one and only you.

and yet I never fully gave myself to you — or you — maybe even you.

when you asked me about all the poems for others —

I shut my notebook so quickly, in fear of my own vulnerability.

for the truth is that I have loved each you less than the you before —

that my words are becoming trite with overuse —

and each time there is a new you, there is radiant sunlight

& a new heartbeat to hear & new skin to touch —

but after the glow fades I always want to run away

until my mind is clear of passion and desire and you,

until I am satisfied without a body to hold —

I want to run away until I feel the strength of silence,

a silence within me that you will never know.



february glow

you have the smile of a man
who could steal the sun
and never boast about it

you would simply hold it
between your palms
blow on it gently
to feed the flicker
& tuck it in your pocket

and your eyes shine
deeply brown as ancient oak
full of words and intuitions
at once bursting and frozen still
with abysmal patience
and rooted loyalty

i watch you follow
the path of a single impulse,
a muted whisper, a lone shiver
across the surface
of my skin softly breathing
underneath you

so visceral, so evocative
the way your presence lingers
inside me



shadows claim the day

my eyes followed the raindrops
forming ripples, forming rivers
alongside worn-down walkways,

dredging through the endless hum
of rubber tires streaming seamlessly,
straining toward set destinations.

no eye contact, no hellos— 
my mind determined to disregard
the unspoken rules of the concrete.

and the clouds sunk toward the earth
until they were inside of me,

until i was heavy with condensation
and pulsating with melancholy—

a swollen, translucent shadow
waiting to spill away.




i will remember this moment -

the sky a warm black sheet
pulled loosely over Rio
sprinkling stars and raindrops,

an explosion of longing
to be closer to your human body.

you told me to speak from the heart,
describe my visions to my own rhythm
and follow them into the sea.

how gentle
listening can be -

intimate words under the skyline twinkling,
falling among endless creamy folds of sand.

knowing perfection was never an option for us
and so many of our words
would be washed away with the tide,

knowing how our story will end
even before it began.




breathe me in,

       waterfall that I am

paint my nails red

       french braid my stubborn curls

             learn to samba in a long yellow skirt

I will never be the woman

       you thought I’d be

I am the leftover paint on your brush

       the sirens wailing their way down your street

              the dull shine of your aging wood floor

                    the noises in the night that spark your heartbeat

I am words streaming down your back

       and into the grooves you hide from the world

breathe me in,

      waterfall that I am




i am a type of poetry
borne from desperation,
dehydration and tired eyes.

i struggle
with the coexistence
of so many separate sentient beings,
the overlapping spacetimes,
the heat of the sun on my skin
from an eternity away from here,
the truths that remain untold,
the chaos of starting a movement
and unwillingness to stop it,
the difficulty of reviving something worn down
(my leather shoes, a decrepit building),
the way thoughts form realities
and realities form thoughts,
the blindness to what may be
beautiful to another,
the resistance to expanding worldviews.

yes, the poetry is there, but it feels
a bit bruised, lackluster, tedious.
like gold dust, scattered through the earth.



i cannot explain why this is romance

in one of those dreamy states of emotion 
when the eyes are focused on a few flickering details
and the rest is all a blur the color of my mind

he told me i wake up pissed off and i go to bed pissed off
and you are the only good thing in my life 
   and it reminded me
of a conversation long ago i had nearly forgotten

and i thought to myself
why i am i drawn to these men     who believe their life
their rich white intelligent athletic male american privileged fucking life
is nothing but a  ?
and WHY     must i be their blessing some smile to fixate upon
someone to absorb their thousand shades of black
such menacing humor such lack of selflessness WHY
do i give my heart to someone who  ?

a champion defeated he said there are so many things 
i wish i could do over
a creator disillusioned i replied i was born in a century
where nobody reads poetry 

my face buried in his shoulder i felt tears form

and in black sweaters in a black bed in a black room
we hid ourselves from each other in the dark



seeing you again

our conversations
are long and scattered
with traces of our old selves
and just like old times
we smoke bowls in your Honda
feet on the dashboard
turned toward each other
in the darkness where
we are both outside
and in a private room
where the familiar trees
of our neighborhood exist
but the wind slapping
at the branches does not
and where the people we pass
seem more like a movie
through this glass

and through each other 
my eyes seek deeper 
into stories and ideas
and the meanings we construct
somewhere between reality
and unreality suspended
between shadows of death
and the false illumination
of man-made light
-drugs- those things
those states of mind
and you and i - our we 
is a state of mind

i begin to remember
how passionate you are
in all directions
i remember how your words
burn everything they touch
and the smoke of me
ascends to a song i know well
as you stoke the ashes
of my old soul
all of the embers crackle
leaping lightly
at a feeling so familiar 



love grown tall and thin

it was a giant -

bony, spindly, grown too fast
thin muscles dressed in shab
glorified still it was breathing

limbs extended: one upward
toward a heaven unexplored
and the other, with fingers
skeletal, straightening
toward the ground
an open palm
i claimed as home

i slept within its grooves
sunk deep into nirvana
ribcage rattled with night

but with each moment i felt
my behemoth fading away
flesh thinning into zero

it came slowly
but by dawn i was surrounded 
with prickling light
and a little morning dew
crept into my eyes

for even giants 
find their way home
and lapse into star dust



ode to daylight

as is                                    noon why                                intensity
was                                    do you beat                          of post
you are                                breathe                                  crisp
                                          so hard                                  pillow talk
( quiet my
poem is                            ( i imagine                            ( fingers i
  quietly                                you are                                  feel at
spreads                                were                                    my mind
  into you )                            a tall man                              sleep
                                          long nosed                              they say )
these leaves                        pointed
this morning                        down )                                  it will
  was                                                                                come soon
you somewhere                    winter you                              it is
  were                                  slink                                      was
  are                                    away                                    between you
                                            comatose                              and
( even now                          with is                                        i
i pray                                    are were
  it is                                      we                                    ( little we
a quiet                                lived                                      are
  yearning                                                                          in moments
as is )                                ( bury me                              of sentiment
                                            in your                                  asleep we
what is                                  summer                                  are
  is?                                      robes                                    in another )
to exist                                  wind
a fraction                              folding                              not yet
of morning                            creases                              i still
  turning                                of fabric )                            hear day
( quietly )                                                                        your breath
  into                                  such meek                            whispers
noon                                    intensity                              as is








i am shrouded
in unwritten pages,
scented of sage and tea leaves.

(      i am on fire
        my ink-scrawled
        outer parchment
        curling into dust      )

another year shed:
i watch the memories burn,
bursting in gold and red
like offerings from my youth.

(      take me
        sweep the ashes
        of old words
        write new stories
        on nascent flesh      )

how many skins left to shed;
how many worth saving? 
life is too insignificant
to resent the past.

(      relinquish nostalgia
        breathe in
        my soul
        is sage and tea leaves
        i am only a ripple
        in an unfurling sea      )




yes i am flawed
i have stolen and deceived
ostracized and terrorized
forgotten the important things
and made messes out of details
i have told lies i never plan to untell

i have wished for pain
for scars of glamour and self-pity
i find something thrilling
about self-destruction
and sometimes i will hold a cigarette
long after i finish it, i will roll the cancer
back and forth between my knuckles
thinking about romantic imperfections
about pushing myself
to a point of vomit and unbearable pain
to addiction and death thinking,
i-am-my-only-enemy thinking, how delightful
to stare into the night glittering with distant orbs
to feel nothing-is-left because i and only i
drained myself of essence
i and only i
saw the starlight in my own eyes
lapse into the past
leaving me fearless and free 
free of a self that amasses sin and guilt
that separates life from death

a new self is all i have to believe in-  
i have broken myself
into a thousand mosaic splinters
what is behind, is behind 
and i miss it like hell already 
but i hope to forge on into the unknown
and for the first time i am starting to feel like 
it will be beautiful
it will be full of wonders
and full of despairs
it will be alive

i’m choosing to forget 
about perfect grammar and metaphors
that weave words into a fantasy
choosing to relearn
the facts of life from a new perspective
choosing to be defined
only by a vague and uncertain faith 
in my own ability to achieve
and to surpass all expectations

yes i am flawed
but my power is in my imperfections
i have begun to escape definition
i have climbed to a place where nothing matters

i am free to tell lies i never plan to untell
free to live the life i have always craved
with my assets and my imperfections
i am free to thrive on thin air and homemade faith


in my reflection i am merely shadow

we fell apart
colors and sounds
gathered like
rot flowers
two forms shapeless
emaciated spectres
of memories
no longer mine




i. mind

i still remember the lighting 
of prominent memories

like the first time he took me into him
the world bright and creamy,
senses stinging with delight

or the living room glow
when my father threw a shoe,
my mother’s scream etched
      forever golden in my mind

ii. body

i can’t bring myself to tattoo,
the skin speaks so loudly-

i run my fingers over the pores,
each one sighing at the touch

and i remember
what it means to be a body:
this skin will someday die
these eyes will rot into the earth

iii. distance

i watched 
the crescent moon rise yellow
and an old friend disappearing
into the darkness of 12:57AM,
painfully aware 
of my disconnection.

so far from everything

fingering the folds
of the fabric of humanity
and when they speak,
i can’t bring myself to care
      i - am - ghosted

i am like the crescent moon,
yellow in its search for the rest of self-

a wraith helplessly wrapped 
in the light of the world around me