She kissed me on perfect spaces,
     With stars,
          Into constellations.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Maybe, poets write because they have unstable feelings.
Maybe, poets write at 2am, in order to ease it.
Maybe, poets write to contain their feelings in to it.
Maybe, poets write *hopelessly.
Maybe, poets write at 2am hopelessly hoping, that, someone, on the other side of the earth, someone is awake to read the poem.

*And maybe someone awake, maybe, to care.

I hope you believe me when my I tell you my body is composed of more than a skin and bone frame.
My body is a picture book of times stained to me like tattoos of memories unable to be washed off.
If you stare closely enough my purple knuckles tell a story of walls caving in on days I can't remember.
My fingers are a light shade of skin because they have traced bodies who's pigment fell in love with my hands.
My palms are empty from receiving and giving a little more than I should of let go; some things I should of clutched onto for longer.
My arms are made of clenched embrace and have a scent of regret laced from wrist to elbow.
My shoulders hold individual carvings of finger nails and teeth marks from more than one individual night.
My lips are a discolored red from every poison stained mouth in which they've met.
My neck is a canvas of rough hands, ropes not tied tight enough and purple stains of affection from those who have lied about loving me,
and my eyes have turned grey from staring for too long into the forests and oceans they've met at three in the morning in the caves of unfamiliar faces.
So if you happen to walk into my room, don't be alarmed by the smell of apathy. Don't concern yourself about the bottles buried and broken under mounds of clothes that reek of Marlboros. Don't turn the light on, and don't open the curtains.
I have lived long enough, my body will tell you the story.
But before you read it, please trust me when I say "there is more to me than this."

Promise me
When my hands begin to tremble
You’ll place your hand in mine
When my eyes become hollow
You’ll gaze into them
When I’m at a loss for words
You’ll kiss me so the silence
Can speak for the both of us.