You reaped my moist soils,
my soft grounded earth bed,
a soul, in a place to rest your head.
Before I only asked for water,
and when the seasons changed,
I died, brown and wilted over.
When our sun got hotter,
I grew with it’s new placements,
turning pedals where they ought to,
in the centre of our pink garden,
opening up for another keen drought.

Skin fibres trace across us burning,
and all I can do is smirk at your shivers.
You know I’m an expert at *** and ex’s?
That’s why you find them in eachother.
Trained six years, broke three hearts.
Crossed a few seas and brown eyes
to find yours staring lonely in depths.
So ******* blue and yet so much softer -
would you ever hurt me like they do?
I can find all your secret soft spots too,
map the space our lips drew out.
Across Royal York to Jane? No Runnymede - where we ran to our bakery’s.
Where you loved me plainly,
if you think I didn’t know then here’s how:
I can see it in between takes, the ttc stops,
between breaths your forgetting to draw.
Like our map we are objectively real.
And you think I don’t see past you,
with a past like mine?

you love to kiss my stern mouth
when i rip up in passionate graces
but i am not a mistake, i promise
i am an awfully good learner

still i wait on your patient notices
any slight gesture to ask for more
a longer goodbye that lasts four hours
so you can kiss my smiles to form more

Want to wrap me up real tight?
Under all the winding veins of mine?
Don’t you shake my miseries away,
closer to the midnights before us?

Because I recall the bow you drew,
to spin around my vacant virtues.
That I often packaged all too well,
only to become undone.

the grass is a trap for us both here
keeping us apart by sheer centimetres
each blade guarding our arms lightly
trusting our legs lying there quiet

you play me your favourite soft rock bands
i pretend to listen and to care more than myself
but all i know is your soft smirk lines
and that you can’t keep your blues off me

tell me about your “super” computers
and how all my poetry is just 1, 0, and maybes
and i’ve never believed in the binaries
or doing work for someone else

so when i take off your cut off jeans
and you ride your hands up my black cherry dress
do you feel like your operating machinery
or is it just another maybe?

To wake up as your twirled self,
not a single fragrance wrong,
making silence of your closed world.
Never questioning clarity.
To me that is most scary,
because I have never fit in skin,
I ate the feedings in one sitting.
Lived to tell my fractured beginnings.
To sing love ballads at a Wake,
wearing the ripped tights from the third date,
and you are what you take,
but I’m just learning to ask.

I was born in the northern lakes,
in a small winding wave
of unpleasant emotions.

To dream of me was a myth,
conceiving me an accident.

Yet they confide in me for comfort,
they drill me for being raw,
and take my goodness for grave abandon.

Their love is sensationalized,
asking for new leaves to shade them.

But growing up had never meant growth
and I keep on getting chopped up,
to light their dying embers.