The still English heat,
The ***** promise of July the 1st
Leaves the grass a mottled yellow
And the dappled shade of the purple birch
Almost holy.
Specks of precise and glittering pollen
Rest upon beds of browning foxgloves.
Cats are left collapsed,
Blissed out, lulled into dreams
of this motionless sun shining forever.

I feel your hands in my stomach
And I'm hungry for your grip
As the hot sky only ripens
My daydreams of your laugh.
The thick scent of withering hyacinth
Is the curve of your back,
the taste of your sweat.

A stain of certainty is baked in
By July the 1st.
Novocain for my infected English heart.
Whispering the start of a love that will be
kicking leaves through October
And sharing warmth through December.

I am wasted on the idea of affection.

Of it I drink daily.
I sip and I sip
until my swollen heart aches in its lonely abiss

Many wonder why I weep so often.
But you could never know the pain of a hangover with a soul as drunk as mine.

Went to the word market
looking for bargains.

found some:    cheap PAIN
                          cheap LOVE
                          HURTS galore.

In the fancy alluring boxes
Almost ****** me in.

Rack on rack:  Disobedience
                          Bad Choices
                          PLEASE NO MORE

All went in **** Bags

Box upon box of
A clean looking place
nothing fancy

I saw baskets full
Running over
                          Faith
                          Hope
                          Love.

­                          Redemption
                          Gr­ace
                          Mercy

ALL WERE FREE.

Some of the same words
used differently...
Love was fulfilling
Pain and Hurts were still there
but in the distant memory.

Redemption and Hope were
in strong demand this time of year.

There was "scent of Rose"
lingering in the air.
Memories of love
caressed my spirit.  

The place was not crowded
the people were the best.

you
      walk
            naked
                  and dripping,
from
      the shower
                      
and stand,
             as i covet
                         your
                              absolute

beauty and magnificence.

ardent desire,
               raises goosebumps
on
   my skin,
             as lust
                    lights the fires.

your
     eyes,
         rake over me
                      and i am left
quivering....

we come
         together, with    
              mouths full of greed,
lips of desire,
             skin so tender....

that the touch
              of fingertips,
                   scorches and sears.

but burn, we must
             and burn, we will.

as we ravenously, take our fill

gorging,
           feasting,
                      devouring,
                      ­              desire.

this is our .....
      love's funeral pyre.
                      from which
the phoenix,
        each day arises...
             ...more incandescant.
to await...
          with longing
               fervent and asmolder
          
the next match's
                   striking to love's
                           lusterous fire.

I wrote my way out of the dark pages of my life.
I know what it's like to see your life hanging by a thread;
scraping your skin with your fingernails to stop yourself from crying;
weaving scars on your skin to get some high out of life.

Smiling on the outside, but tearing up on the inside.
I've been there,
disguising last rites as declarations of love;
holding out for that one guy for some unjust reason.
I was once told I was beautiful on the inside,
I used to scoff at that thought.
I couldn't be beautiful,
my metaphorical skin was sewed and patched, ruined and defiled
and there was nothing beautiful about that.
It took me a while to see that beauty for myself.
I was once that one girl sitting in corner at midnight
contemplating suicide over family tiffs, unrequited love, loss, loneliness, and every other
stuff that I couldn't deal with.
I can't look at my left wrist
without feeling some sort of disgust because of the tallies of pain
I left behind.

I had this habit of saying 'I'm always good' whenever asked
but I got tired of seeing illusions as reality,
I was tired of escaping my own life. I was not okay and I needed help.

I wish somebody had told me
this sooner:

MELANCHOLY IS NOT TRENDY, DEPRESSION IS NOT COOL,
CUTTING IS NOT A FASHION STATEMENT
SADNESS IS NOT ATTRACTIVE

It's actually sad that we,
teenagers,
advertise sadness as if it's something to be proud of.  

YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL
YOU DON'T NEED VALIDATION FROM PEOPLE
DON'T LET HIM TELL YOU HE LIKES YOU BETTER WHEN YOU'RE BROKEN.
NO, SCARS DO NOT MAKE YOU ATTRACTIVE
SOME SCARS AREN'T WORTH HAVING
CRAZY IS NOT ****
**** IS NOT ALWAYS ****** SHEDDING A FEW KILOS WON'T MAKE HIM LIKE YOU ANY MORE THAN HE DOES
UNHEALTHY RELATIONSHIPS DON'T HEAL --words I wish I'd  heard sooner

You are not broken beyond repair

YOU ARE A PHOENIX,
A PHOENIX MUST BURN TO EMERGE.