Some people hate silence,
a cruel thing,
that brings with it loneliness,
long derived soliloquies of self torment.
Me;
I thrive in silence.
For, what other time can one sing,
and be heard by everyone,
and no one at all.

We are wild things.
Feral.
As unpredictable as any animal.
As deadly as a thunderstorm, a hurricane.
As destructive as a volcano.
We are used to blood and sacrifice.
And from the ashes we continue to rise.
Like a Phoenix.
Ready to burn those who defy.
For we may look like delicate flowers,
but we have thorns.

Would the sun blush
at what we say under the moonlight.
Whispered declarations and
soft ‘I love you’s murmured
against kiss bruised lips.

Would the sun blush
at promises of forever,
written in marks across soft skin,
a garden of blooming infatuation,
left for days to come.

Would the sun blush
at such delicate touches,
that make unfiltered prayers spill,
from rose petal lips,
like wine from a bottle.

Would the sun blush
at seeing such secret moments,
of pure unadulterated affection,
from me to you and you to me,
my love.

Would the sun blush
because the sun wishes too,
for soft moments in the moonlight,
to declare his love for her,
in hidden ways like we do.

I have marked my body,
with ink, and pain, and careless abandon.
And now I am a walking museum,
of my life's work for all to see.

What would it be like to touch her?
Like dipping fingertips in a pool of stars?
Cold and warm at the same time,
something that feels forbidden,
but also with a sense of knowing,
of being bigger than your own body.
A soft tracing of fingers over skin,
freckles and birthmarks and scars,
connecting like constellations.
Like finding gravity and falling back to earth, aware of time and place and self,
meaning something to someone.
A little or a lot like falling in love.
A grounding of you to another person,
lest you float away into emptiness.

Cup your hands to catch sunbeams.
Feel light in your veins.
Glow gold like Icarus.
And melt away into stardust.

If only loving you hadn't been so
suffocating,
I wouldn't have had to cut you from me,
my lungs,
my heart,
my mind,
to save what I had left of myself.
If only loving myself hadn't been so
painful,
I wouldn't have had to torture my body,
through pain,
and loneliness,
and with less,
to fit what I thought I should be.
If only I had learned sooner,
but I'm better now.