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Layla Sweigart Poem
The morning after I tried to die was just like any other. My Grandmother called me from the kitchen, alarming me that I had slept-in too late. My face was puffy in my eyes, cheeks and lips. My body was fatter and more stocky. My color was all-well returned back to my head, with my nose a bright red. I had taken most of the pills in my prescription bottle, surprisingly nobody noticed the amount of them that were missing. Even though I was breathing, I have been dead for months.
The morning after I told her I was better off nowhere, in the thirty degrees heat, I left. I figured it made no matter where I found myself in the world anyways, for I was just a problem made of atoms.
The morning after he told me he loved me I took his blindness and handed it to Jesus, Jesus healed him like he did the others, and suddenly he was just a boy who had said three words he’d never mean.
The morning after the dog left, I saw his footprints embedded in the living room carpet like cement. I saw him moaning and crying at the door like the ghost he was, begging to come back.
The morning after I woke up, I wish I had not. But that's just life.
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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Layla Sweigart Poem
The murmurs in the wind named me a whore
According to those prayers i never wished for more
Than to be touched by the purest
And held like fine wine
All In the hands of a caliber
I held that knife like i held you darling
And when you told me all i am is ing boring
I threw the knife straight between your eyes
Hoping you wouldn't notice the hole in my mourning
And i told you death was better mercy
In the hands of a caliber
No one can hurt me
So i slashed off my hair
And killed all my friends
Hoping i'd never again find a caliber in my hands
Woah for this winter
Mourn for this winter
Up here in the mountains
No one can hurt you
Expect for the snake
That hides in the hole
With the same name
Same voice, and same clothes
And it hisses at you
To reconcile
All in the hands of a caliber
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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Layla Sweigart Poem
Sometimes, in the mornings,
The morning crows don’t sing—
Perched and preaching by a loblolly.
Breathe in this metanoia,
We all live for it.
And if the morning crows never reverenced,
Sitting at my doorstep,
Waiting for my feet to touch pavement,
I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement.
But the morning crows chant my indiscretions,
To the man in the moon,
Too far to touch, too distant to see—
So I cannot tell him
Of my worries.
Fill up this cup with your americano—
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it.
The morning crows fear I will be different
When the sun sets
And daybreak ends.
So I hide in my sleigh bed,
Too frightened to tell you
That I am revolutionizing myself.
The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth.
As I settle down to become holy,
They sing my death—
Heedlessness,
Widening your eyes,
Sharpening your grin.
When I wane once more,
The morning crows will say,
They told me so.
Perched and preaching by a loblolly,
I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed.
Breathe in this metanoia.
We all live for it—
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2024
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Layla Sweigart Poem
you asked me how to walk with scissors
I said my dear,
that's so bizarre
that's like asking how to get to Georgia
without using planes or cars,
a better man
than myself
would've told you
darling
if you wanted to learn how to walk with scissors
you're better off crawling
you hold them by the blade my love
just like you did to me
you tell me that you love me babe
but I cant stand to watch you leave
I'll watch you walk out that house
I cant tell fact from myth
I begged you just to stay a while
then you walked out,
with the scissors you stabbed me with
now I told you how to walk with scissors,
how could you do that to me?
now I know to hold on tight
because the scissors belong to me
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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Layla Sweigart Poem
I whisper to my mom;
"do I look more like you, or daddy?"
daddy looks mean
he's only nice to the medicine
the medicine that keeps him going
through the long nights
the long nights that he thinks about me
and dreams about coming home to me.
he dreams of what I could've been
if the medicine wasn't the only thing that kept him going
with my arms over his shoulders as he hugs me
and tells me I'm his savior
from all the bad things
that have ever looked him in the eye
if i
was the only thing that kept him going.
he sits on a leather couch that I imagine
is covered in beer stains
covered in tears
from the night before
he decided that I wasn't worthy enough
and that the medicine was all that he had been wanting
forever, since I've been here
I am no stranger to medicine
I've been to the meetings
I've talked to the survivors
I've felt that pain
I've seen that pain
I've seeked that pain
I've lived that pain
that he lives in everyday
it is not impossible
if you want it badly enough
if daddy wanted it bad enough.
I ask mom that dumb question;
"do I look more like you, or daddy?"
i hear no whisper back from mom.
she is silent.
and I know the answer.
I am nothing like him.
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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Layla Sweigart Poem
imagine
if I was harmless
from the hurt
that lives
deep down
but shallow
in my stomach
that is to big
for my bones to carry
imagine if I was
littler
than the girl
who told me that
she would rather die
than live in my arms
once more
mysterious I am
with my black cloak
leaving my
home
that I long
to be free from
but not redeeming
enough
to pick up my stuff and leave
to cherish you
once more
before you leave me
with wide open arms
I am now carrying
the weight of the moon
in my weak
arms
because I am long
to be free from you
throwing books
at me
when dinner displeases you
and how come
I cant shake hands
with my past
or give greetings to my future
because you're too bitter
for a fortune of gold
and that is never enough
for someone as sophisticated as you
imagine I left tonight
from this ruin you made
for me to sleep in
you would quiver at my name
I would hurt you
like you hurt me
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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Layla Sweigart Poem
Only for a while
was I big enough
to fit in the fortress
that you call home
my tiny hands
once gripping the table cloth
now sink into my own skin
like I am some kind of traitor
only for a while were you
young enough to count grasshoppers
while the world around you was ending
you were too caught up
to notice how it actually was
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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Layla Sweigart Poem
for a moment
I close my eyes
and wish you well
like a balloon
I let in the sky
that will never come down again
a bitter brain such as mine
contains no remorse
so I am sorry I have nothing
to give to you
and a running nose
I cant stop from running tho
and for a moment
I am back to black
and black and white
monotone
and envious
a bitter lung
no air
so I am empty
with not much to breathe for
besides the winter that
haunts the house
across the street from
where I grew up
my livers life
is shorter than my own
deadly
but I love
the admiration you give me when I smoke
hello
hello
can you hear me from the trees
from the trees
you call me
but I will never suffice
for a perfect lover
and I blame my bitter brain
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2025
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Layla Sweigart Poem
Feeling herself she drifts
but nothing like yesterday
while she was young-
she screams at the door
to nobody on the other side
but she feels heard-
so she slowly dies in her anger
and comes alive on the nights where she has nothing to spare
digs a hole so deep
but never deep enough to be found
we call that blood mercy
when youre unseasonable
and unwanted
for the world
with blue hands
she knows nothing is how it seems
govern by lunatics
no better than she-
sleeps with her head on a rock
and her side on a pillow
so she always knows
permanent things you are ungrateful for
your child bears weak arms
so you cut them off
is this love?
bloody mercy
meanwhile my Haitian Dreams
drive the moon to insanity
as I linger in my death bed
they shout
"Tu es inops!"
"Prepare yourself! Quickly does the river flow!"
I should've listened.
Copyright © Layla Sweigart | Year Posted 2026
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