scratch my skin it's a lively wire
with absent eyes pulsating bodies
like a newborn teal tarnishing raw devour
because cinder you faux fire
choking ridges like concrete luxury
that cryptic junctures glow exterior
innocence because the nerves in my organs
are burning , intriguing scotch
to observe my 1960's theme
the grace of ethers
could be leveraged
to her latitude
no linguistic lay line
~ she ~
behind my forehead
out of my
Venus on the
The world is your
a beautiful dancer. Loved by
everyone and accepted.
I sometimes wish
I could know what she means.
Perhaps she's my muse
set to music.
I think she'll always be a
my feelings for you are
a thrift store kind
i'm comfortable in them and there
is always something about
these feelings to explore
because they have not always been mine,
but they've always been there.
they've always been
i just had to find them
you held my hand today,
and the touch was so careful.
such a ginger gesture,
and blue was never a warm color
until you looked me in the eyes
'your hands are so cold.'
yours were warm,
and baby, it was a
warmth i needed to feel,
as my soul
grazed the constellations.
causes the earth to tremble.
if you've been keeping up w me, you know idk what i'm doing.
leo = halfcrush for whom i may still have strong feelings for oops????
train wreak you diffused specks of hazel
that nude lipsticks were rigid romances
shriveling moans of moon light
slurring sequences with bold touches
like poetry smearing against slender ankles
"let your hands linger by my thighs"
flesh shuddering you are burning ivory
melting skin because I am bleeding out apologies
seizing shades of burnt down old road trips
that atrocities decay films incensing
delicate sanguine loving like adjectives irritating throats
accessorizing words with melon tongues
Metal lurks in loops and sits in slants.
grooves and gashes, among skin-deep sins,
and soft romances, every spiral a tongue on skin.
Scalpel scars collected across centuries of love and pain,
Each stud is an echo; every loop a steel memory engraved
with the imprint of life.
Sideways glances on the bus.
You're told they won't rust
when you sing in the shower and take them along.
But pain is what came because you wore them wrong,
and the glances are here to stay.
The holes don't go away.
My writing style is a little different now. It's been a bit, yeah?
my veins are emerald lush & withered
like a floral cherry red astonishing speechless
writing as I can slowly feel blurred grandeur
scattering like beats of fascinating interlaced criminal
minds that perennial fragile skin
are higher then late nights caught in the rain
inhaling tender languor
everything is complicated
I am becoming all the things
I'v always hated