Always Trust This Love Poem

Bloom, love


on days when I have dehydrated skin,

like leather

you remind me we’re not all in ruins, and


we’re cellophane wrapped around hard

candy / sunrises that cast shadows


I’ve kept my words between my teeth

but you spill yours, freely,

onto the floor, even when

your swipe-to-type phone

feature riddles the ends of e’s

with extra b’s but only when

the word starts with c:





“I feel so closeb to you,”

you say


And you know

I’ve been comforted for ages

knowing that we’re entwining lifelines

For my love,

With love, Alyssa


Sonnet Man

(A response to An Ache, Exploded, over a year later)


Sonnet Man touched my body.

Haunts me still


He’s unkempt & greedy,

whines like a siren—the creature,

unlike the warning bell I

desperately needed

He crept his satyromania into

every conversation, injected

his guilt-complex into my cerebral cortex


He’s powerless now, a cyber ghost

wandering his screen like a nomad


Sonnet Man,

it hurts that I can’t say your name

& I’m never feeling evil enough

to place the blame

You left alive

I stumbled away in pieces, ravished

Let’s count the wounds:

A red palm from when you slammed

my hand onto your jeans

(not just once, not twice,

not three nor four nor five,

but eight times)

& a black/blue/purple brain


I can speak about it now,

can’t hurt a memory’s feelings


I won’t rest until you remain

unknown to women.

I lick my wounds like an

undernourished animal

as the first step

to the rebirth

of my divinity

& amour de soi


Sonnet Man, I ask you—what’s

the point of being a monster

when you have no teeth?


Act I

Considered plucking the rose from

my chest and littering the sidewalk

with it;

Other women brought

bouquets so I no longer feared

I’d be singled out at the gate


Voorpret intensifies


When the sun was no longer

suspended in the sky:

women hopped fences and

a man asked for extra tickets

while my head shook like

a blurry photo,

whips back and forth

in the cold

Wind a nemesis I faced for you


Act II

After circling around the sun

together four times, I finally

see you face to face

This moment is

eternally ours,




Hell’s Kitchen brings tears

Your octave continued to spill

over my ear

Now I wander around like a

wispy dream,

I close my eyes and

see the memories they’ll

never know

when people ask me, I say

when people ask me, I say


I’m stealing his eyes

in an assemblage of bodies

familiar faces

They don

charcoal outlines &

coruscate teeth


In awe of you before me

Two types of feelings

engulf me like twin


sinful, entwined:


  1.  We’d be better separate—

A match &



  1. It’s all in frame,

an involuntary fantasy,

a supercut

We move like oil paintings

our lines blend into each other

our strokes brisk

Sugarcane byproducts mess with

our organs

The clock reads 0:00—we

burst & we start over

primal rush

People envy us—

we steal their glances &

hoard them in the limited space

between our torsos

The supercut concludes

when we study each other,

parallel, drawn-out stares


These warm nights with you are

wild, and meaningless

“December” – Spenserian Stanza

I stand at winter’s edge and plead for sun;


I stand at winter’s edge and plead for sun;

New England days of wintry light conceal

what warmth was present—now just slim to none.

The clouds do swell and all the lakes congeal,

cadet blue-sky that brings me no appeal.

The coldest winds of December relay

a sense of despondence that’s not ideal.

I perch on winter’s edge like birds of prey

and use my beak to plead for beaming warmth of day

I normally hate poems in which I have to rhyme and follow specific guidelines, but this Spenserian Stanza, written for my English Epic class, was fun to write.

With love, Alyssa

An Ache, Exploded

An Ache, Exploded


Smutty, sweet, exploiting heart

planted an olive tree in me that


won’t die until we’re one-thousand & nineteen

Pray for verticillium wilt when


a whipping disorientation festers, a sickness

climbs into my hippocampus


You persevered like a seed against

my visceral doubt & so the personal decayed


Now I wake up feeling ugly, skin

like boils redder than dawn


It shrivels up like wet band-aids

where prehensile fingers commandeered


Lacerated to the bone

Toss me neosporin, a tourniquet


Lick your lips when you’re finished &

perch on the backbone of no-woman’s land—


—a landscape of sulfur, eddied around grass,

the blades piercing me hot


He told me to

think the whole thing null,


make a martyr proud.


With love, Alyssa

Open Mic Night in which I Took Gold Out on a Date

My bio (to announce me) was: “Alyssa Vigorito is a sophomore majoring in English and minoring in Digital Journalism, who writes with the purpose of unsettling the mind. She is a chicken noodle soup enthusiast and your good friend. Her poem “Take Gold Out On a Date” is about a whimsical nothing.”

Yesterday night  I was one of several speakers at the English Honor Society’s (Sigma Tau Delta, or ‘STD’. I can’t wait to be part of STD haha) open mic event, in which students could share poems or prose. I designed the poster for the event as well.

This’ll be brief, no anecdotes or anything, as I have to read and write a critique on submissions for my publishing class. Here’s what I wrote and read:

Take gold out on a date


take gold out on a date;

don’t ask him why fools are on his tail,

attached like parasites sucking golden

blood through their silver tongues;

do ask him when he turned to Midas—

a compliment;

buy gold a $14 mojito

empty bottle requiem

another round;

kiss gold in the Penn Station Auntie Anne’s

golden pretzels twisted like our

lives—a Jenga masterpiece

cadence of the footsteps

another round;

plan a tattoo about how he’s all you see;

fall in love with gold in the same manner

we shower: what was once claustrophobic

is an act we wish to


in torrential downpour or

remaining drops

With love, Alyssa

Valentine’s Day

Here is an unfinished/unpolished clipping with love xxx

I’ve been working on a poem that’ll intersect at the variables of ‘love’ and ‘color’. It’s not finished- it won’t be until my deadline in one week.

Here’s a clip for all lovebirds who may be reading:

“kiss gold in the Penn Station Auntie Anne’s / golden pretzels twisted like our / lives— a Jenga masterpiece / cadence of the footsteps / another round;”

With love on today of all days xxx

With love, Alyssa

Text Message Poem

A poem composed of texts I have received or sent, all from different people.

Texts With Friends


Another leaf tucked behind my ear

Will he see that at 48 Duncan?


there’s no one behind me

Mom is sleeping.


I’ll take a dark and stormy if they have


Jail break…

Are you crazy?

I’ll drive some of them over the bridge

How opposed to riding in the trunk of a car are you?


With love, Alyssa