I have a nasty habit
of dropping pieces of
myself on other peoples
doorsteps, leaving
frigernails and stray
hair inside their
post box. I always
give a part of my skin
to strangers on the
street because maybe
someone else can love
it more than me.
And I rely on broken
teeth and bottomless pits
to decide how whole
I really am.

So I set up camp
inside their
bones because I've
never been one to
know what home feels
like and I thought
I could manifest inside
sink holes for hearts
but it only made me
fade to black.

I wanted
to make peace with
the torment in my
head, but then the
flood came and sailed
away the only bed
I could ever sleep in.
And I wanted to hold
onto the idea of
making bonfires in
the small confines of
their back but people
don't take kindly to
being shelter for a
storm that never dies.
I come with lightening
strikes and hurricanes
in a three pocket
backpack and knock
on the doors of those
whose mother never
held their hair back
when they cried.

People are tempory,
in every meaning
of the word. They crack
and they crumble
just like me but the
wreckage of them
always seems to land
right beside my
shacking knees and
I sift through the
rubble because I've never
been one to let go
of things too easily.
I burn alongside the
people that I love
and I let them spit
out their sparks
upon my neck and
I rub their ash into
my flesh and I scream
when I get burnt
because I forget that
they were burning
when we met *and I was
bound to get a little
****** in the end.

You are the difference
between hell and home
and I'm still trying to
figure out how your arms
made me feel like
I was in both places at once -
like your hands could
wire my wings
but you'd prefer me to
rot in your flames.
You saw no shame in
swallowing my organs whole;
as if you needed me
to be empty enough
for the wind to pick up
and take me away.
Like you woke up in
the morning hoping to
find shreds of my
clothes stuck between
the trees
because it
wouldn't be leaving you
if I didn't leave parts
of myself too.
And I keep trying to
gather them up but
they're torn from your
words that stain like
bile and I just
can't seem to stitch
them back together
again.
It feels like you
put out the cigarettes
you never smoked
along my neck
because
they hurt more than
hickies
and you only
wanted me to remember
you by the scars you
left upon my body.
And even though I'm
framed from head to
toe in your pristine lies,
I could watch you
pull apart my flesh in
pure awe because I
swear every twitch
of your shameless fingers
defines the movement
of the cosmos and the planets.
Sometimes at night
I can feel your hands
burning through the
ventricles in my heart,
and I dont mean that poetically,
I mean I can feel you
degrading in my blood
and I can hear you
quiver every time I moan
because nothing gets
you going like a plea for
mercy can.
You are a monster engulfed
in a masterpiece of skin
with a black hole for a heart
and I don't know how
I could love you so much
when all the bruises
still show.
The only comfort I have
held is the one
resting in your chest
and sometimes
I can't sleep at night
without pretending you're
sleeping here too,
and it hurts -
*it  really  *******  hurts.