Carrie George

Carrie George has been writing for most of her life. A published writer and award-winning poet, Carrie takes advantage of any opportunity she can to continue writing. She is a photojournalism major with a writing minor and hopes to incorporate her creative writing skills into her future career. As an avid traveller and passionate storyteller, Carrie draws inspiration from the places she’s been and the people she’s met along the way.




His hands were soft and he

was too afraid to love me.

I looked out the window and it

had rained. The droplets there

colored the world something different.

Traffic lights bled red across the street.

Kids walking below had legs that bubbled.

Everything was drowning.

I said

it’s beautiful.

you said

I hate the rain.


I am tired of light-eyed boys

who pocket hate like coins on the side walk –

one more penny and it’s a lucky day

of kisses that only lead to

purple letters on my neck.

At least they started out as my favorite color

and faded back to flesh right as I began

to forget your name.


It snowed in April

and that was the last time

of the season. In the headlights of oncoming

traffic I saw winter raising its hands

one last time – a final throw

into the pool of remembering

“I haven’t been gone long,

did you miss me?”

You haven’t been gone long

and I miss you.

I said I loved the snow,

it is beautiful.

you said

it is cold.


And for all the languages you knew

you still couldn’t understand why people

used them – how can you love language

if you cant find anything beautiful to talk about?

And I don’t mean me, though I felt

more than beautiful with your fingers

printing lightly along the solid lines

of my body, I just mean anything

that made you feel something.

I’m tired of dark-haired boys

dropping loose change in piggy banks

with nothing to spend it on – what good

is it doing you in there, saving up for a future

you’ll never see if you don’t look it in its eyes

and say

“I’m ready to give you a try.”

I’m tired of soft-handed boys

not yet ready to give me a try.


We looked up at the stars one night

and I said

it is beautiful

and you said

nothing, which I guess

is agreeing for cowards. I’m tired

of cowards who would rather tread water

waiting for the ocean to empty itself

than ride the waves back to a shore

they’ve never seen.

Cowards who only want to get high

pressing palms and lips to my skin

but refuse to look further.

Who only want to store pocket change

on shelves and collect more dust

than memories.


Next time, I want you to break skin.

I will open my stomach to you

and you will find

rainstorms in a world without umbrellas,

winters that are coldest in July,

and all of the stars you could never name


swirling and gathering and swelling

with light as old as the languages

you want to learn but

don’t know how to use – This,

all of this, is yours

if you are brave enough

to take it. 

Let's Pretend


Let’s do something.

2 AM is talking and this bed is a cage—

let’s break out. Carve keys

from broken hearts and spread

our wings like we’re just learning

to fly—don’t worry,

I’ll catch you.


The moon is smiling

so let’s kiss its cheeks,

cup its warmth in our hands,

keep it in our back pockets

and share it with our brothers.

God knows they need it.


Cause, you and me, we’re like

icicles: cold, sharp, melting.

We don’t have much time to hang

from these roof tops,

so let’s spend it comparing scars

and having staring contests

with the sun—we won’t win,

but at least we’ll die trying.

At least, beneath our bodies,

flowers will grow.

At least the earth will remember

our footprints like water droplets.


When I met you, you were

a flood. Pulsing through my rib cage,

crashing into the caverns of my mind

kept unlit. You carved keys to doors

I had locked and helped me open them.

My skin folded at your touch

like a child’s origami project.

I wanted to let you in—

to swim galaxies with you and tattoo

bad jokes on our wrists. 


When you left me, you were

a drought. Withering the gardens

you helped plant, draining the ponds

in my pores. I rebuilt my rib cage

like a dam: stronger, tougher,

to swallow tsunamis whole. I buried

keys in sand castles and let them wash

away from memory.


But 3 AM is talking

and loneliness isn’t just a metaphor

so let’s stick it between our teeth

and watch each other die.

Let’ tear open our rib cages

and let the world rip us to shreds.

At least flowers will grow

at our feet.

At least the Earth will remember

our footprints.

At least you saved enough breath

to whisper words like a rainstorm

on the dustbowl beneath my bones:

I’m sorry.


4 AM is talking

and this cage is crumbling.

The moon is waving good-bye.

It’s time to leap, to grasp

for that last bit of warmth—

we’ll share it with our sisters,

our mothers

until there’s nothing left for ourselves,

until our bodies are barren

and we’ve got nothing left to lose.

Let’s ditch the moon, nosedive back to earth

and pretend we never said good-bye—

I’m not worried. You’ll catch me.

You always

caught me. 

Salvation in Three Parts

Part 1

Forget them.

Scorch memories in bonfires

and bury the ashes.

Dig demons out from under your skin.

Paint your fingernails with their blood

and shoot fire from your fingertips.

Fill in the holes they left with soil

and sun light. Let rose bushes

bloom from your pores.


Part 2

Feel lonely.

Turn pillows into puddles

and splash around in your misery.

Talk to yourself

until your throat is dry and your ears bleed.

Tie old photographs to your chest

and let your heartbeat swell

with regret. Let your eyes sail oceans

of nostalgia.

Cover your pain with cheap foundation

and carry on with your week.


Part 3

Save yourself.

Extend bony fingers to the sky

and climb ropes until you're face to face

with the sun, suspended in the clouds.

Sing to the birds like those pretty girls in movies.

Swim backstroke through the air

like gravity never stood a chance.

Fill your lungs with atmosphere.

and scream to the soil below,

"I belong here." 

Selfish Sky

I knew someone who told me how to feel.

Who took the leaves from trees and sent them to

the wind. He scattered breath and dreams, unreal

now that they weren’t a part of me. He drew

the earth with clouds and sky, but left no room

for me. And in the garden where I stood

he sent a winter early; my new tomb.

Alone, I wandered ghostly through the wood.

I took the wind upon my lips and sang

a song to draw the world again. I gave

myself a land so vast where my voice rang,

and dug a plot for corpses, his new grave.

I caught my leaves back from the selfish sky

and buried him so, away, I could fly. 

Dust Accumulates

Inside the dust we lose ourselves

as we stare across empty shelves

and see the things we used to know

(hands and faces all in a row)

that bring our eyes to sunken wells.


While years ago we planned to delve

deep into puddles (sets of twelve,

and two, and four – the numbers grow

inside the dust),


we’ve now heard time ring all its bells

and seen its hands cast many spells

of warning and of sorrow.

We’ve seen it draw its arrow

inside the dust.