i could be that girl
whose voice is low and melodic
and coats your mouth with
acacia honey
whose eyes are the color
and depth of
midnight
whose presence is thick like
new york summers
rosy like
los angeles in early spring
if i braid flowers into my hair
if i write enough poems
if i learn to show the skin of my essence
but remain an abyss—
i will stop making art
when i become it

One day in 2299,
They will tell
This story,
The one of
Dying books on
Dusty shelves,
In a time when
There was
Still room
To dig graves
In the ground.

Paint to paper,
From a beating heart;
Bleeds like old acrylic
Dreams on the back
Of syncopated medium
As emotions
Pour uncontrollably
Because you never
Knew how to not
Feel so much.