I’ve been thinking about Love.
Not the kind etched into marble
or pressed between the pages
of something classical and preserved—
but the kind that breathes—
wet, feral, unfinished.
The kind that has always existed
long before language tried to cage it
in sonnets and scripture,
in myths where gods split themselves open
just to feel less alone.
(It never worked.)
Because love was never meant to be contained—
only felt
in the fragile, fleeting moments
where something inside the body
dares to soften
despite knowing better.
And maybe
that is where it begins…
—
They say love is soft.
And it is—
the slow drag of fingertips
across the back of a hand
that forgot it deserves gentleness,
the hush between heartbeats
when something inside you decides,
against all prior evidence,
to stay.
It is breath shared in quiet rooms,
warmth pooling in the hollows of collarbones,
a body learning—hesitantly—
that not every touch
is a precursor to ruin.
—
But love is also teeth.
Not metaphorical,
not poetic exaggeration,
but something that bites down
on the most tender parts of you
and calls it devotion.
It is the splitting of skin
under the pressure of wanting too much,
the ache of being seen
past the point of comfort
into the marrow
you tried to keep hidden.
Love does not knock.
It seeps,
it floods,
it drags its soaked hem
through the corridors of your mind
and leaves mildew
and flowers alike
in places you swore were airtight.
—
History worships it.
Builds monuments out of it.
Writes epics where it conquers death,
where it turns men into legends
and women into cautionary tales.
We carve it into stone
like permanence will make it safer.
(It doesn’t.)
Because love has always been
as much a weapon
as it is a sanctuary.
—
There are those who cradle it—
hold it like a fragile animal,
feed it tenderness,
teach it to trust.
And there are those
who learn it as survival…
who call the sharpness familiar,
who mistake the bleeding
for proof of depth.
I have known both.
I have been both.
—
There is something wrong
with the way love lives in me.
It does not bloom—
it fractures.
It grows in the spaces
where damage has already made room,
threads itself through old wounds,
and calls that home.
I have reached for it
with hands that only know
how to brace for impact,
and wondered why
it recoils.
—
Self-love, they say…
as if the body does not remember
every time it was turned against itself.
As if the mirror is not a battlefield.
As if I have not stood there
trying to reconcile
the person who wants to be held
with the one
who cannot loosen her own grip
from her throat.
And there is that quiet, persistent fitching—
threaded somewhere behind the sternum,
a low, restless hum
insisting there is more of me
I have not yet survived into.
How do you soften
toward something
you were taught to survive?
How do you pour tenderness inward
when the vessel leaks
through every crack
someone else carved?
—
And still, love persists.
In the smallest, most defiant ways—
in the decision to stay one more night.
In the quiet forgiveness
that slips in unnoticed,
like fog through an open window.
In the body, despite everything,
continuing to reach
for warmth,
for connection,
for something
that does not immediately undo it.
—
Love is a contradiction
that refuses resolution,
a force that builds and destroys
with the same careful hands.
It will cradle your face
and split you open
in the same motion.
It will teach you
how to be held,
and then ask
if you can survive
being seen.
—
And I stand at the edge of it—
again and again,
hands trembling,
mouth full of all the reasons
to turn away,
and still…
still,
I ache to step inside.
I push in
like shadows unfurling in the moonlight.
I want the warmth—
the kind passed from mother to child,
lover to beloved.
I want the golden light of it
to pierce through my internal wreckage
and fall—
like sun on a lone flower
tearing through concrete,
petals trembling,
yet defiant.
Mar 25
Mar 25, 2026 at 5:59 PM UTC
Darling stay out of my war.
Continue believing I have a heart of ice.
Do not turn at the glimpses of warmth and wholeness you may stumble upon.
Darling stay out of my war.
Do not question what is behind the walls.
Stay satisfied with the flowering fields I have created for you.
Darling stay out of my war.
For as strong and fierce as my love is–
it is only aiding to make the darkness hurt more.
Darling stay out of my war.
I have lost myself to it far too long ago.
To become a ghost was the only way
to stop the whirling blades from taking my life.
Darling stay out of my war.
Stay on the outside.
Do not let me break you; in your desire to love me.
Darling,
Stay thinking I am helpless and cold.
Stay on the outside.
Darling please,
I beg you–
Stay out of my war...
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 3:41 PM UTC
Varieties of 365 opposite weaving through your hair like the snakes of later gorgon
Extracting pain from lesions cauterized,
The time has caught up with me but not with you,
I understand
Pushing further results in the win but you tied the white flag around your polar throat,
Waltzed into places I loved with high hopes;
Now knowledge feels like a house with the guts bled out,
Walls and veins a front yard masterpiece
You said I wasn't allowed,
So now I say you're not allowed,
And now You may never be fully in again
(That goes to show just what I know,
I seclude my thoughts by choice
And you look so alien, alien, alien)
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:48 AM UTC
The words I have for you don't quite match up to the expected doses:
I see the sickness on your cheeks and the paint peeling from your lungs..
One hundred thousand syllables scattered across one hundred thousand paths your own,
And no one could match that; you best be in the know of how I'm sorry for the lack of hours passed..
These crooked lines of sound spilling from my mouth never say quite enough..
Words can never measure up to the truths behind the 'thank yous' and the 'there will be one day's,
But a variety of years have sped on by, and awe lingers as I hope to never see your back
(It's not like you to crave this with longing slithering through the cracks of your ribcage,
I have hands already held, so just breathe)
I fulfill promises with expectations soaring,
But I've always been the one who steps off the roof...
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
She had eyes like cracked walnuts and was destined for the split-in-two
She redefined 'figure' and made us second guess our white washed demands
Blood coated her esophagus like sand does to bare limbs, lying in erosion
This girl started out so flawless and I just wanted her to take the million thanks I have for her,
Though it's been oh so long since our last converse
With expert hands in contrive that shaped me into being
You fractured all appendages and made me into the rag doll Marionette the audience forgets in seconds.
Who knew I'd play the heroine?
Bathed in make-shift abuse
I walked out the door
To the rest of my life...
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:40 AM UTC
In accordance with almost everyone, there are martyr ice crystals encrusting themselves around the stills of my parted lips, cutting like fibre glass and staining in silence
(As if they've ever cared at all).
The blue, it has begun to creep across my cheeks in a rush, letting my eyelids rest in a salted fury.
I've grown tired of worldly visions and contriving plans to save treason from contradiction and they now say it's time to push the stop button. Simplicity caught in the threads of a sequence - let's just add another scuff to our clean slate, shall we?
According to the honeysuckle lip lock you're playing on, I don't deserve to clutch the pink mass of flesh that is stuck between my striving jaws, so I should just gnash my teeth just like I'm getting paid to screech like a wild animal and chew it off in that ****** fashion I've developed from years and years of grovelling on monolithic stretches of asphalt
(Hidden beneath the feet of statues).
After all, my skin is cream without mar and the crimson tides that would spill from this cavity-ridden pothole would contrast my charade in the most lovely of manners.
But then again there are the extra ones left over, like you for example.
You press your face to cold glass and tell me that you'll always listen intently, and I just hope that your actions won't flatten you out. You fasten the phone to your ear and tell me that you'll always be here unchanging.. But I whisper so quietly and yell so loudly I'm afraid someday you'll hang up without looking back. You glance into my eyes like I'm sacred, and tell me that you'll always have something to say to make nothing else significant but the textures falling from your vocal chords... But you know what you've gotten yourself into.
In accordance to your belief my mouth is wildfire through a dead forest and I should open it up a little more to get rid of the rot in its way. Without us thes fertile soils won't birth the parking lot grasses for us to run through like nobody's business, and I've always loved losing my breath. When we get there you say that we'll watch terra cotta and french rose invade our cheekbones in the most complimentary of styles, and then you'll fold promises like origami and force them into the vices of my fists
(As I pound my hands into the walls to try to tame my screaming emotions)
But cherish them I do, and I favour you just the same.
They say tiny water particles clustered in suspension are no place to hang up my brain stem for the evening, however you and I think otherwise and I have this funny little quirk that happens to involve listening to everything
(You have to think).
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:38 AM UTC
Chest rising, falling, waves of life ripple within that hollow chest you hold.
Your t-shirt is cotton. 1000 little fibres, like heaven to the backs of my hands as
I gently trace the contours of your ribcage, hiding those bones that are so fragile against
The blue-grey clouds of mattress we found on the street
Do you know pain?
With your eyes shut, the worries imprinted on your skin fade away.
You look so peaceful, chest rising. Falling.
The moonlight carves your features feather light.
Still you softly let air circulate through your lungs..that angel of oxygen is so kind to you.
You toss and turn in your sleep, while the tendrils of your hair speak of harder times.
You breathe so smoothly.. how long have you been afraid of the dark?
Those blankets form mountains on dust laden floorboards, without footprints for friends.
Thrashing through these storms that enter the cavities of your skull.
Breathe in, breathe out. Chest rise, chest fall.
The stars are reminders of the black, open your eyes to let them shine.
Disrupted now, my animal saviour with the toothpick legs.
You run on instincts when you are blinded.
Where are you going with those pretty little lungs of yours?
Birch bark flesh, you peel your cover off with sweat beaded finger tips,
Are you tired of that mask now?
Coca cola honey dripping from your pores, you have a funny way of cleaning up, darling.
You are a mess in an aluminum disguise, slathered in the paint of raw.
Your chest rises and falls, and the night breathes it's way into you.
Calm now.. coming to a perfect still.
A mannequin of glass, you once hurt so badly.
But mornings are for new beginnings, so it is only the night that taunts you now.
And now you breathe.
You breathe, you breathe, you breathe and you fall.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
My fingers trace the softest of sensations, gentle fogs tinted in poison ivy
I can't help but think of the times you bring me back,
I was misconstrued but the smell of your clothing always wakes me up again
I called it choking on the sweetest of intoxications,
You call it breathing, living, and I cannot agree more with that
The walls twist with an agony we turned away from,
Smothered in admiration, bruised in the spin of need
Nature caressed my skin and told me that I bleed black,
Disbelief was obscured until you brought me back,
You always have a way of doing that, carving your own path
It's amazing that you let me walk down it with you
Your skin is like metal washed in rain, but always oh so tender
The highest tower couldn't keep the struggle away from you
I always try my best to be the shield to keep you from the cold
Your heart beats like a drum, a double manned marching band that I can hold within my fingers
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 11:11 PM UTC
From the havens of petrified tree limbs and tell-tale fractures, the sun watched us rise. In the confines of our new throws and puddled clothes we wounded contradiction with a vehement swagger, stealing baby steps from story books and transforming them into bridges.
-----------------
With pink calla bells young in hand, he assured her that war paint could be beautiful.
(She denied this vigorously, however repetition seems to have a way of getting to a person)
Stripped petal free for the birds; barren, a fairy dressed within recreance,
In his benevolent stead she found her cage a masterpiece.
An apple a day can't keep the doctor at bay despite the slander you have heard,
When you've cascaded amidst yourself
Hope can only dwindle down the contours of the hourglass.
He uncovered the core of her with a wave of his hands,
Vital sunshine, dissolving the shadows that the analgesics could never slacken.
What a pair they were!
Carved from the sweetest bones and set in immutable concrete,
Written in intricacy: a double faced language set for the lips of two, and two alone.
He said she was perfection in the finest and she said he surpassed,
Tangled in the webs cast by green leaves and stump corpses, night stumbled upon the two.
[Yet a pair apropos in match are sure to handle the slips and shades cast in grey with ease,
Confidence must by upheld by excellence to count on morning faithfully returning to your side]
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 11:06 PM UTC
Lately it's been so cold here.
Really, REALLY cold.
So cold fingers go white and waxen,
And icicles shake hands with snow banks,
As old friends do in grocery stores.
How can time go by when we stay still?
Progress is not a form of knowledge.
So stop with your talk of intelligence.
It's too cold here to say you're smart.
Well I suppose it's not really cold here…
It's cold there.
For I am the carrier of almost warmth,
And duct taped pupils.
I am the one sitting on the windowsill with the telephone in hand,
Tracing windows on the fog laced panes
That makes you yearn so deeply.
The cold doesn't touch me.
The cold doesn't possess me like it does you.
Because it's not cold here,
It's cold there,
And you can't deny it.
For I am awake
And I see what you were up to,
I am not happy when you listen.
I will pretend I am happy
Because smiling carries the luxury of acceptance.
I like being excepted.
Acceptance…
It brings warmth.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 4:51 PM UTC