She must steal sips of starlight;
have kissed the moon's pale cheek,
been blessed as one of her constellations,
because, she thinks,
not even Icarus must have been this enraptured by the sun,
or Orion the moon;
and if it meant burning,
she would throw everything into the feeling of fire in her chest,
flowers blooming in her lungs
all from just looking at her beloved.

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.

I want to catch
and hold fire in my palm.
Burn just to feel alight.
Melt down like wax candles
and be reshaped into
something new.

We are all addicts
for all the things in our lives
that we can't control.

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

A purple road
cutting through the greenery
lies before me.
A clear path to something
new and unknown.
Another day.
Another dawn.
Another purple road.

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.

I am but flesh and blood.
Like others, but not.
A unique togetherness:
Bones that break,
Eyes that see,
Teeth that bite,
But more than that as well.
I am also love and hate.
Like others, but still not.
Dreams to follow.
Fears that overwhelm.
Anxiety that consumes.
I am made of many things.
A constellation of different things.
And some shared things.
All of them me things.
My own universe of strangeness.
That will someday grow,
From flesh and blood to a galaxy.

Darling,
let me write my love for you
in kisses and bite marks
across the canvas of your body.
Let me pour out my devotion
with the caress of my admiration
and strawberry scented kisses.
Because darling,
I want to show you all the things
I know not how to say;
the sweetness and the pain
of being in love with you.

My love letters are written
in cherry scented lipstick
on bathroom mirrors,
and as poetry
you will never get to read.

"One more minute," you say
as I glance at the clock,
ready to run off to the places
I wish to, but can't avoid.
"One more minute," you say
as you grab my face,
smush my cheeks,
leave behind watermelon kisses.
"One more minute," you say
and every time I give in.
One more minute given,
just one more minute late for you.

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.

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.

When there is a snake
stuck upon your roses,
hiding under strawberries,
hissing tales of thorns and rot,
cast out the snake
before burning your Eden
to the ground.

And what of the old gods,
strong and powerful beings
they once were.
Do they still exist,
or did they fade away into obscurity?
Does belief keep them here?
My belief?
Maybe I should look closer.
In that dark bar,
a wine god a patron,
a protector of those who drink,
past their fill of bubbles,
stumbling and stupid,
led by soft hands still trying,
to form connections with lost worship.
And maybe death is not all that fearful,
if there is still a gentle voice,
to lead the way,
and be met as a friend.

The Sun loves the Moon so much
that he gives her his light.
Silvery adoration that overflows
and drips from her form.
A love from which the splotches
form stars.

Hear the soft tune,
a long forgotten lullaby,
notes that form fated threads,
tethers us to moth eaten moments.
Remember as you dance,
to a voice filled with memory.

My hands used to shake
at the thought of breathing:
the hardest thing at the time.
Living wasn't an option.
Surviving my only goal.

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.

Sing for me,
wether good or bad,
cracked or too high pitched,
through tears or anger,
because I just want
to hear your voice,
in all the ways your voice
can sing or sound.

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.

I wonder how many versions
of me there are,
written as doodles in the margins
of hand-me-down school books,
a stranger in the background
of some other strangers photo,
as the phantom taste of a kiss
on an ex-lovers lips,
or even as old journals
filled with long forgotten poetry.
Who knows how many there could be,
or which one of them is really me.