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your sugar-sweet voice
makes my face shift hues.
most every word you speak,
tastes of toffee and milk.

honeycomb heart
so sweet and so kind
your gentle embraces
taming my world of fear

you turn salty tears
into sweet honey
like warm liquid citrine,
golden as meadow’s light

delicate kisses
light sunshine touches
romance’s secret dance
our blooming love flowers

drunk off your nectar
a syrupy high
your heavenly flavor
erasing my mind’s pain
the price you pay to be thin
you won’t even miss your fee,
it's just the feeling of empty

nevermind the color in your face,
draining into plastic bags,
filled with last nights hunger

no matter your darkening smile,
cracking into sunflower blossoms,
that you hide behind your knuckles.

don't bat an eye at your thinning hair,
swimming in your bathroom drain
strangling your hope of recovery.

now what could those tired eyes,
broken and red with strain say that
puffy cheeks and chapped lips cannot

lips like concrete, spilling weeds,
lips stuffed with cigarette love,
lips that once bloomed spoken word

but you smell of no dandelions.
you wear perfume of stomach bile
mixed with the stench of hatred.

the smell that every bathroom you visit
knows like the back of your hand,
the hand scarred with teeth’s embrace.

the side effects aren’t pretty
but that’s all a small price to pay
for the feeling of trying to be thin.
am i something other than the scoff of thunder?
other than the whimper of the wind?
do my words mean more than the weeping of a storm?
or am i the same as the breeze out of reach of the hurricane’s rage?

shall i linger like ash
or drift like sea-foam?

what matters more
how loud my song
or how long it echoes?
or how long it echoes?
you’ve drenched my canvas in pigment,
so i’ll paint you a memorial,
with passionate bonfire sunsets
lolling cloud’s giggles
and the loveliest oneiric wisps.

you are the piccolo sky

the maundering thunderstorm’s dissonance,
and the electric sting of the lightning.

the dazzling stars sharpness coupled with,
the magnetic pull of the milky moon.

the lustful vapor of magma sunsets,
and the shimmering ocean's distortions.

you're the tornado's wrath fueled destruction
and the light kissing dust in the sunrise.

you can be as daunting and as infinite
as you grey abyss in december,

or as soft as april's white raspy breath,
loving brushstrokes across the blue heavens.

i don't know how i reached you so high up,
or how i can stay afloat in the clouds.

but i will figure it out just for you.

you are the piccolo sky.
the piccolo sky

sharp yet soft
beautiful yet harsh
melodic yet shrill
bony branches reach,
fingers point to wisps
bottomless sky trembles,
finches tread the clouds;
a question.

chilly breath rattles,
nature's coo darkens
waves of grey grow infinite,
deep grumbles follow;
an answer.

deciduous skeletons sway
dry leaves cackle
winds hum indifferently,
sinister growls emanate;
a warning.

bitter air swirls,
dark hatred billows,
rolling mistrust encroaches,
blanketing the stillness;
a threat.

viscous jaws snap,
energy laps at dry bark,
brief clarity,
deadly faze;
a strike.

woods slits into flame,
smoke oozes from its shelter
fire coughs sparks west,
destruction on its way
a battle.

droplets of forgiveness,
ashes sizzle into ink
soot dissolves away
war's footprint revealed;
a recession.
a gentle nod to 7/4/17
the damage renewed beneath unearthed soil.
When you’re below sea level,
the downhills are trenches,
the uphills are the visible depths.
No matter where you are, you’re drowning,
it just depends how much pressure you’re under, how crushing it is.
Lungs always screaming,
head always dreaming,
body never receiving,
hope starts retreating.
you can cut out the tongue
of someone’s who’s numb
and still they shall not say a thing.

there is nothing beneath
that mirror of grief
and nothing to stir the silence.

no flame to purify
you’ll still want to die
and sink into oceans palm.

so you drown in the sea
you can soon be free
and still you shall not feel a thing.
and still I do not feel a thing
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