I have been away
for a while.
Too long, I think.
I was not lost.
No,
never lost.
Maybe
just wandering.
But I was always coming back.
Coming back to me.

And you will see me
and you will wonder
who she is,
this woman
with earthquakes in her bones
and stardust falling from her fingertips
like rain upon the desert.
And I will tell you.
I am me.
Without you.
As I was always
going to be.
The wanderer
has come home.

The
three
words
we long to hear
above
all others -
You.
Belong.
Here.

I think
there is an ocean in your chest.
Your eyes rain tears
and they fall in your mouth.
Yes, I think there must be.

I sometimes think
I could drain my blood
and use it
to write my name
on your walls,
just to hear you say it.
I need you to know me
so badly it scares me.

The most
fragile
of truces,
held together
on a
silver hair's
breadth.
Sail
your fingers
across
the ocean
between
our shipwrecked bodies
and say
it will
all be
ok.

*It has to be ok.

Even those
with
the iciest blood
and
the bluest hearts
still have
moments
where they wish
there was someone
they could wake
in the middle of the night
and whisper
"This has happened to me
and it is not ok
and I am scared."

Do not
forget
to hold
your heart
close
and
protect it
against
the savagery
and
careless handling
inflicted
by those
too blind
to see
its beauty.

The lines
around
your eyes
and mouth
that
appear
and
disappear
with every
sunburst smile
are the
little maps
of where you have been
and
where I hope
to travel.

Sometimes,
bravery
can be
as simple
as deciding
to love
again.

Sometimes
the bloodiest battles
with the greatest number
of
casualties
are the ones
fought within
the confines
of our own
warring
souls.

Maybe
if I turn
my back
you can
see
for yourself
the
******
constellations
you drew
with your
knife.

And
I cannot help but wonder,
how much more
there can be
to endure.
How many more
oceans of silence
must I sail?
How many more
deserts of nothingness
must I drag myself across?
How many more
hopeless forest fires
must burn through me?
I am strong
and
I will stay so,
but still
I wonder
when the horizon
will give way
and I can say
it is over
at last.

I believe
it was Neruda
who once said
‘Tonight
I can write the saddest lines’.
Well I guess
tonight,
I can write
books,
encyclopaedias,
libraries
and still never say enough.
You are the words in my sentence
and the poem in my pen,
even now.

You didn't know
that I hold
galaxies
in my head
and
oceans
in my chest.
You didn't know
that I would've
died
a thousand times
just to see you smile
for a second.
You didn't know
I would've cut the throats
of tigers
just to keep you safe.
You didn't know
I kept the darkness
hidden
so you only saw the
light.
You didn't know
I would've loved you
as much as
my wasteland of a heart
would allow.
If you had,
you never
would've let me go.

The realisation
that nobody
but you
is going
to save your life
is as
liberating
as it is
terrifying.

Sometimes
it is
easier
to let
your
demons
ravage you
from the
inside
than
open
your mouth
and
release them
onto
another.

My words
to you
are like knots;
an impenetrable,
nonsensical
tangle,
unless you
pick
pick
pick
at them.
I know now
why they call it
‘tongue-tied’.

Once you were an atlas
that my hands ached to trace.
Miles spread before me,
a planet in concentrate.

To roll like a child
down the valleys of your ribs,
to race the sunset
across the horizon of your throat.

To swim for hours
in the halcyon of your eyes,
to lie amongst the flowers
in the crook of your elbow.

Of all the lands
I have travelled in my time,
I can say in truth,
you are my favourite.

And when I die,
tell them to bury me here,
my epitaph written
in the freckles on your wrist.

And so
I let love
place it's knife
to my throat
and
bleed me
until
my veins
ran dry.

To be
a footnote
in the life
of the one
whose story
you wrote across
every inch
of skin,
is perhaps
the greatest injustice
of all.

I hope
the miles
of paper
I filled
and
the oceans
of words
I wrote
tell you more
than my
hopelessly
tongue-tied
self
ever could.

In reality
I could not
keep him,
so instead
I wrote him
into every line
and weaved him
into every story
so that
he and I
could live
forever.

With a kiss
I pour
into your mouth
the words
I am too
scared
proud
ashamed
to say aloud.
*I need you to love me
and yet
I am afraid
of what will become of me
when you leave.

I touch
his skin
with the
reverence
of a
rosary,
as solid
and sure
as
the faith
of a
blessed
saint.

And
if I could
break it down
to it's
bare bones,
I would say
that with every
beat
of my
fractured heart,
you
heal
me.

I do not
ever
cross your mind.

You occupy
every nerve
in mine.

And
like
a
fool,
I
waited.

When they tell you,
in cheap whispers
and poison tongues,
that
I am broken,
that
I am cold
that
I cannot love,
that
I have done things
that would make you weep
should you ever know them,
I hope you tell them
that
you know better.
Because
darling, you know me.

And so
I sat
in our spot,
his and mine,
and
tried to recall
a time
when I did not love him,
when I did not miss him,
when my body
was not so sick
with the poison
from the
spitting cobra
of his
memory.  

And I found I could not.

And
as I watch
the cigarette
you left
burn away
to nothing,
I cannot help
but wonder
when
you will be back
to torture me
once more.

The cruelest thing
you did
by far
was make me believe,
for a brief
shining
moment,
that someone
could actually
want me,
and then prove
so conclusively
that
no one
ever
could.

But
truly,
how
could I
ever have
dared
to dream
that
an angel
like you
could ever
love
a monster
like me?

The sky
is turning
gun metal.
The ocean
beats more fiercely
now.
Here it comes.
That tsunami –
doubt.
I am small,
afraid,
too battered
and beaten
from previous storms
to hold back
this tide.
You are changing your mind.

Please don’t change your mind.

Not being
locked in
feels an awful lot
like being
locked out.

Some people
are like
burning buildings;
you will run
into them
time
after
time,
against all
advice,
to salvage
what you
can,
and then
wonder why
you are
always left with
nothing but
ashes.

Maybe
someday
we'll
be
intoxicated
enough
to talk
about it.

Dear one,
do not
wander
too deeply
into the
dark lands
of my heart;
there are
monsters
there.

I heard it said
once
that
the definition
of insanity
is to repeat
the same action
again
and
again
and expect
a different result.
Well,
I truly
am certifiable then,
dear love,
for I throw myself
against the steel door
of your apathy
again
and
again
until
my body
bruises and breaks,
and yet still
my hope
remains
unshattered
that one day
you might
leave it
unlocked
for me.

Under this same
leaden sky,
there are millions
like me.
Each caught
in the cyclone
of their own
lonely hour.
Whose blue hearts
shiver violently
and yet burn
for something,
for someone,
for anything.
As long
as we have each other,
we are not alone.
I am not alone.
This is I tell myself,
always.

When I think of you now,
I think of you in abstract.
You are not scratched into my skin,
vivid and ******.
You are vague,
a crude outline
on a crumpled sketch.
There will come a time
when I will struggle to recall
the way
you rolled your cigarette,
you mixed your drink,
you said my name
like a liturgy
and a damnation,
all at once.

If you
reveal your soul
to me,
you will not be
denied.
You are not
a stranger here,
my sweetest heart;
no,
you will
be greeted
like an old friend.
No matter
what they tell you,
you are wanted,
and
you are loved.
Never doubt
this one
purest truth.

A happy ending
is an ending
all the same.
Give me drunk fights
and slurred sharp words.
Give me kisses
that draw blood.
Give me hands
held so tightly
half moons
adorn the galaxy
of your palm.
Give me an imperfect always
any day.

Well darling
I hope you like
the
sad
bad
girls,
with a tale
she'll never tell
and a heartbreak
she'll never show.

I race blindly
through this life
with the perseverance
of a woman
who knows
her cause
is lost
but
is terrified
of the bleakness
of her world
without it.

And the
secret
hairpin curve
of
my smile
is
testament
to
what
last night
meant.

Perhaps
floating
down river
with flowers
in my hair
is better
than sitting
on the bank
and
watching them
die.

We are not pretty,
I’m sure you’ll agree.
Paintings will not be hung of us.
Ballads will not be sung of us.
They will not speak of us
with hushed reverence
and dreamy smiles.
We will not be
the benchmark
by which
all other lovers
are measured.
They will not like us.
But by God
they will remember us.

The
inconstancy
of
others
is
not
your
failing.

All we
ever did,
he and I,
was
**** up.
Our bodies,
our relationships,
our lives,
each other.
But
in a
strange way,
I guess
thats why
we went
so neatly
together.

We are
the history makers,
the short
sharp
burst
of light
and sound
that cuts through
the mundane
like a knife
through an artery.
So
lace your fingers
through mine,
dear one,
and together
we shall make the world
weep with wonder.