You fill me.
You fill me with something that if,
That if a house were cemented with it, if a hell was cemented with it,
I could call it home,
I could call you home.
You fill me.
Fill me with something that if asked the meaning of life, this, you,
You would be the awnser.
I am lapping at the shores of my skin, overcoming the brink of my bones.
I feel with you.
Im filled with you.

You **** like poetry; when you move I ache with something too much for words.
Your hands speak to me in a language only spoken by gods and it feels like a sin just having the pleasure to listen.
Hymns erupt from your chest and syllables pound in your hips.
You **** like poetry; goosebumps dance over me like a breath when your tongue etches hieroglyphics into my skin.
Your teeth drip with an inky saliva made to stain; every inch dancing along my throat is bruised with your scripture.
You **** like poetry; quirks from your lips are given dictionaries of definition.
Air was never so good as it was when it graced your tongue
My knees buckle under the sensation of your eyes whispering to mine.
You **** like ******* poetry.

Chests arch as if ****** demons are being compelled up by the rough grunts and broken moans
and shuddering nails are digging holes in my back looking for confessions and
hell doesnt even hold screams that thrash in throats like this
The sheets smell like *******, my skin smells like ****, it all smells like sweat, like ***
You are an earthquake in my bones, ribs, my thighs, sending ruptures and pleasure and shock and **** all the way up my spine
Who knew the nightmares could **** so fine?

This is the color of my walls at eight am
a little light a little dark a little I don’t know if I want to try yet.
“Just say they’re yellow,” I am told.
Secretly, I think they doubt that too, that sometimes they wake up and see the not-yellow.

This is the color of my walls at midnight
a mess of thoughts, making a Gogh at it. I think maybe there’s a little red mixed in sometimes.
“They’re not red,” I am told, again.
How could they know, do they watch my walls at night? I wouldn’t mind the company.

This is the color of my walls at eleven am
a cave I wish I’d never tried to leave at eight am, a cave of moss and wood and rivers.
“No plants grow, no waters flow in there,” I am told.
I can’t hear them, because I am in a cave and the water is rushing too loudly.

This is the color of my walls at three thirty pm
just a little bit like sleeping, more like a cocoon, nothing at all like leaving.
“The walls are dead,” I am told.
But maybe they just wish they were, so they wouldn’t have to listen to their colours.

This is the color of my walls at this time
maybe pulling, maybe pushing. I think that one is yawning, that one sighing
“Don’t listen to the things walls say,” I am told.
Aha, so they HAVE heard them too. My walls make them miss the colors of their walls. Aha.