i want to fall apart in someone’s arms,
breaking. shattering. crying. safe.
i want to know what is it like to fully give my weight to another,
without worrying about the impact.

and the only way i ever felt close to people was the press of my hands in their open wound
stemming the flow of blood
the warmth of their pain giving me a way in
around the ice enveloping me

so i dug my hands in, felt every tear of their heart
held their head as they wept and lent on my shoulder
drinking in the ghost of intimacy in those moments

the blood spilling over my fingers felt like fire to my frozen limbs
burning and alive
i didn’t care, didn’t notice as it scorched my flesh
overjoyed at a sensation other than numbing cold

And this is it
Do you want to know
the way the world turns?
The way the universe spins
past galaxies and stars,
shattering and reforming.
Endlessly.

How should we count
the falling of the stars
in a glass that does not break.

Do you feel the breath
of the imposter
burning down your neck?
Holding over you
like fire and flame.

All this and more
yet you still do not find it’s meaning.

Seen from a far off field
like a dream fading into distance,
beneath the surface of waking thought.

You do not find this thing
you are looking for,
you must find the place it is built.

For there is where you will make your peace with it,
learn to hold its hand
through the lonely night
when all else has gone to sleep.

you mourn for the things others have.

a young love, reciprocated.
the feeling of being wanted and wanting.

dinner dates and laying out under the stars.
being able to hold hands.

knowing that you have someone waiting to see you.

romanticized ideals of love, undoubtedly,
yet things you never came close to having.

you mourn for the things you watched others have,
because you know you will not have them.

I pick out all the pretty colors just for you. Wear them on my sleeve, bright and shining.
I grew a heart just for you. Just for them.
I grew a heart with their help. Watered it, nurtured it, watched it blossom.

I held on to what I could when the storm came through. In the moving, in the chaos, lost what was planted.
I felt nothing but loose strings and empty bottles, rolling through the house. Built up around the wreckage, pulling in the walls, stapling the floorboards.

From afar it still looks like a house. But it’s built on corks and bottle caps that I hide the   number of. In its center sits the space that remind of which I cannot mend.