call me a pyromaniac
but i will simply call myself a lover of warmth and light.
i have been an arson in my own home, over and over,
not my house built up from the earth with brick, and mortar,
but my home.
this body.
this skin.
because there is nothing more beautiful than the way the flames leaped high enough
to foxtrot with the chandelier ,
or the way
the smoke curled with every heart beat, or blink of an eye,
whispering sweet nothings to clean air in my lungs
or the way I danced barefoot to the beat of the fire alarm,
look at me and my passionate party!
maybe,
i am a pyromaniac
going out of my mind and into a box of matches,
or maybe,
my soul is on fire, fueled while I bleed my kerosene blood,
and I have simply learned to dance in my own flames.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 8:56 AM UTC
i still can’t say your name.
not because, the sound makes me sad,
but rather because
the way the letters sit on my tongue and,
the way the syllables leave my lips
simply don’t feel as comfortable as they used to.
i wonder if you can’t hear my name.
the way you told me to add an accent to the end.
the way I made it sound like the ending to a love note,
a love note my diction could fold into a paper crane
that could fly to your heart.
i remember how you recorded me saying my own name,
because, you loved the way the vowels
dripped off my lips one by one,
the way I could curl the four letter nickname so gently
it sounded like a cursive word,
wrapped and tucked behind your ear.
i hope you can’t listen to those recordings,
because I can’t listen to my favorite songs.
i hope one day your mouth opens to say her name
and closes knowing it said my own,
because any time I type another man’s name on my phone,
it somehow autocorrects to yours.
i hope my paper crane name has made a nest in the back of your mind,
laying eggs that will hatch whenever you touch her,
so when you hold her hand,
the little crane in your skull says that only word it knows infinitely well:
táti.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 8:51 AM UTC
the color red is said to be romantic,
but it is not romantic when it is coming from the body of your love.
blood is not a sign of forever,
bandages are not meant to be
stickers trying to hold a relationship together,
bandaids cannot heal bullet wounds,
and love cannot heal a broken jaw,
a jaw that was broken in the name of love,
love cannot heal bruises down my side,
a healthy relationship is not meant to be black and blue.
your hands caress my face,
but sometimes I can’t tell if it’s an open palm
or a balled fist against but cheek.
“I love you” can melt into “I love you, but another girl more”,
I am unable to tell whether our love is sinking
through poorly timed texts on your phone,
or swimming through the blood I shed
when you tell me not to leave you,
you say the shouting is because you love me,
the cursing,
the drinking,
the way you can throw punches better than you can throw a baseball,
but love is not meant to be black and blue.
and my crimson blood is not a blood sacrifice to your demons,
this love is parasitic.
you take my flesh, take my courage, my pride,
but I will not let you take my life, so try to threaten me not to go,
but I have to leave you.
because I love you.
love is not meant to be red, black, or blue,
love is meant to be white.
clean as the rubbing alcohol that disinfected my fist-inflicted wounds.
love doesn’t validate violence.
love is pure.
Nov 25, 2017
Nov 25, 2017 at 10:25 PM UTC