when hands reach to touch you
may they reach for you
not hoping to find anything
but you
may they reach for you knowing
that you cannot fill empty spaces
and that you
do not have any empty spaces within you
may they reach for you
gently, in love,
with wonder at the wonder
that you are

His eyes are like black beetles rolled onto their backs, thick legs like lashes flickering in the movement it requires to take me in;
And I am exposed- again- to the disease they spread from living underneath the foundations of so many homes, not unknown, exactly, but pardoned as 'harmless’ and left
to live in the crawl spaces, where his real eyes roll between the cobwebs.

Therein the innocence of beauty, with all her God given curves, is curled up inside the belly of that glutton, and the stomach acid does the devil’s work in decomposing her;

We all have bruises on our necks, blooming in lavender colored thumbprints where he turned our faces forcibly away from him;
There is nothing so damning as a woman who has made eye contact with those insects,
Bite
Your
Tongue
Girl,

This is not about you.

This is about the ‘stumbling block’ you became to him,
This is about the disastrous eventuality of outliving your usefulness.
This is about the godforsaken body you were given to spite and entice him with,
And your ability to keep it carefully hidden.

We will not bite our tongues.
We are not the amalgamation of soft feminine lines, rent into the shapes you like them best,
Or the shapes you hate,
Or the constantly transforming flame of your carnality, with it's cruel hands around your throat.

We are not our bodies;
But they are ours.
We are not our bodies,
And we will not be easily devoured.

We are elaborate animals made of wood
earth, flowing like water into the veins
of the sky.

The sun being a fist of lava, and the night
being an enticing molar—we are
a succession of tides, being swallowed
by successions of day; and how beautifully
we wilt in the presence of joy.

The moon may be nothing
but a luminous
stone

and to eat the poetry of it
is how one chokes
on love

but the romance of morning
is that if by midnight
you are alive, that is joy.

when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.