After
a period
of recovery,
I am
sick with you
again.
The fever
burns to the bone
and
makes me
see things
that cannot
be.
Love
is
killing me
slowly,
one
poisoned heartbeat
at a time.

Beware
of nostalgia,
for it is
a liar;
it bends
the past
like a prism,
casting
colours
onto the shadows
of how
it truly was.

Dear one,
the nights
I have spent
bloodying my knees
screaming
Heaven help me
to a God
I do not
believe in,
waiting for
you -
soft as
a psalm -
to pull me
from
my devils.

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
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.

You cannot
remember
my name
or
look me
in the eye,
but you can
take off
my dress
and
right now
that's
good enough.

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.

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.

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.

5:43 am.
Sunday.
Waking up
to crumpled sheets
and bruised knees,
birds nest hair
and ***** raw throats.
We are the eye
of our own storm.
You said
Kid,
we are the hurricane.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

And
like
a
fool,
I
waited.

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

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.

I do not
ever
cross your mind.

You occupy
every nerve
in mine.

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.

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

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

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.

You would not
let me past
the stone wall
that surrounds
your heart,
but
you let me
climb it,
sit atop it,
and
briefly glimpse
the beautiful tragedy
that lay beyond it.
And maybe
that was enough.

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.