July 1---

i gave myself to you,,,
we were in your room
devouring each other's lips
and presence...

my hands wound up to your hair
down the skin in your neck
you slid your hands
and took off our clothes
leaving only the ones covering
down there

my lips in constant motion
as i was trying to feel you
and your lower body pound against mine
deep and hard, every pump opens me up
lights me up, and takes me to the sky

our naked skin sweating hard
our breathing fast and filled with lust
and passion that melted between us
and glued our bodies into one..

the incessant beat of our hearts
synchronized in fluid motion
like the waves in our flesh
electrifying our senses
i traced your figure against the faint light
trying to get a picture
of this moment in my mind
but it was too impossible to forget
and i knew from then
you would haunt me everytime...

they have
been here-
Plath,
Hemingway,
Dickinson-
where merriment
grows little,
and sorrow
feasts abundantly
on the
sacrificial red
ink I
must bleed
to convey
what my
voice dare
not say.

The only part of my day
That I look forward to
Is when I go to bed
And lay there making up scenarios
In my head.

I think of comebacks
To 8th grade bullies.
I think of witty retorts
To my mother's snide comments.
I think of intelligent things to add
To conversations I had months ago.

I think of all the things
I was too scared to say.

And in my mind
I say them.
And pretend how things would be different
If only I had the courage to speak.

“Have you written about me yet?”  you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.

But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.

I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.

I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.

Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.

You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide ugly things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.

“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.