Where is that man?
That hits her.
Then turn around and professes to love her.

Where is that man?
Who used intimidation to keep her?
Then track every call and everybody close to her.

Oh, we outsiders says, she should have left.
And that completely true.
But if one thing is known.
These weak men we call fools are dangerous and cruel.
So essentially she's in a catch-22.

Oh, we see these guys constantly upon the news.
Using excuses, they didn't mean too.
While in reality still remaining the same.


Remembers kids, are born of these dangerous relationships.
Some by ****.
Some by errors of mistakes.
Some from intimidation and raged.

We got to address these issues.

You chew me up
And spit me out
I'll come back with
A different flavor

I remember that night, like I remember the first time your lips became acquainted with mine,
The moon was embracing the thin sheet of winter's rain - a sapphire shadow illuminated my mind.
The sky was sad, but the stars were smiling.
The night's opaque disposition was all I seemed to know.
Though, I recall your eyes-
Like the first snowfall that frigid November ever graced me with.
Your eyes -
They were painted in crimson, illuminated by your laughter.
And the stars were put to shame by the light within your iris,
Your skin was a brilliant saffron,
Like a marigold in summer's warm embrace.
I wanted to paint your cheeks with vibrant strokes of scarlet -
My gentle lips the most suitable paintbrush.
And that was the night I fell for your crimson disposition,
Your eyes were the sky's azure complexion set to flames -
Followed by the silver freckles scattered across midnight's opaque canvas.
I haven't wished on a star in months -
Not when there are galaxies in your eyes.


(m.c.)

there's always been something poetic in how you glide across a room -
like a butterfly with a kaleidoscope anatomy, so beautiful yet so shy.

in how you laugh like you've never had despair knock on your door at 1a.m. and ask to see the ghosts that haunt the locked doors in the folded creases of your home - with signs labelled, "keep out."

in how they write love stories less romantic than your eyes, and how they kiss me from across busy intersections, and crowded rooms with empty souls.

in how every time your lungs are embraced by elation's vapour, your eyes are crimson like a sky set to flames and you smile gently like despair is but a word in a dictionary - one that will forever be a stranger to your sweet disposition

there are infinite stanzas folded within every corner of your anatomy, sprawled across lined paper in the midnight sky's blood and sealed in white envelopes.

and if sadness ever knocks on your door on a quiet september night. and asks to go inside that locked door at the end of the hallway that's entangled with ghosts that haunt the blank walls. the room that you avoid every lonely morning because you've never been fond of the dark or the frigid air, and least of all - ghosts, that you thought only existed in the pages of books.

if sadness ever knocks on your door with her charming eyes that seem to unlock the doors without question.

i will sit by your bedside, in a quiet room with the walls painted in blue,  and the folded edges of your sheets kissing my skin. and i will open every envelope, without leaving a tear - just so you can hear each sentence as it is dismissed from my crimson lips.*


(m.c)

i love you.
and no i don't mean,
i love you, like i'm trying to make empty conversation.
more vacant than the mailbox of the widow next door,
who hasn't left the house in eight years because the sunlight's embrace still feels like his.
i've never been one for small talk.

i love you
and no i don't mean,
i love you - like it's february 14th and i'm thirsty for someone to tell me i'm beautiful,
so i'd sell my soul to you
and stain your bitter lips with my name.

"i love you"
but you won't call me back next week
because i gazed in to your eyes like you were oxygen and i was struggling to breathe.
rather than you were a poem painted across the sky
that i was dying to read.
an excited grin flirting with my rosy lips, entangled with elation.

i mean *i love you
like my eyes become the north star when you laugh,
i see your face etched between the stanzas of love poems,
and i hear your voice in the wind's autumn serenade.

i mean i love you
like i'm a fifty year old alcoholic with wine stains on my carpet
and i'd still choose you over that bottle of liquid elation in the cabinet.
here i am. stumbling on my words,
choking on the poetry weaved into your smile.

and "i love you" -
the sun's fiery kiss against my skin
reminds me of yours.
and when my bones age, and your presence fades into the horizon like daytime's end.
your absence will burn like cherry wine flirting in the back of my throat.
i may fear sunlight too.

i love you.

                                               (m.c.)

his eyes are the colour of coffee,
-warm and romantic
when he looks at me,
i feel like i'm looking into the window of a coffee shop.
the walls painted in mahogany.
and coffee stains.
he looks at me with caffeine weaved into his eyelashes
energy lingers within his iris.
my frail hands tremble
my eyes light up with the exchange of energy through lovers glances.
i haven't slept in days

his lips are crimson like wine,
and they bleed into mine like ink does to a page -
slowly but deeply.
scarlet kisses between hopeless romantics,
entangled with flames.
my throat is an inferno.
burning as his tongue seduces mine in,
the cave where my laughter hides on gloomy afternoons.
my lips are numb like lonely palms are when autumn decays,
and all i can taste is a bittersweet elation,
like blood as it lingers in your mouth.
i'm drunk again

and his arms built a house,
inside of me.
a quaint bungalow with the walls tinted ivory,
the smell of vanilla mingling with oxygen fresh in the air,
a house that feels like singing birthday candles to sleep,
and your first kiss.
the house you return to when,
your hands are rosy with winter absorbed into your lifeline.
it's the house that you can't stop coming back to,
because it feels like christmas, even in june.
and no matter how hard you try,
you can't wash away the love signed by;
wine spills and laughter absorbed into the carpet.
when he touched me:
he built a house with his hands,
and made it feel like home

*i've never been so homesick.