I have written poems about you
with tears strung decoratively among my face.
I have composed sonnets with the taste of your mouth still stinging on my tongue.
I have vowed to you nothing less than everything I have, down to the core of my fragile bones
when my spine went missing till the very day I met you.
I have recited oaths I learned from the patterns in which you toss in bed.
I have spat heavy loud "I love you's" as if they were the only words I ever knew
and the last I could ever speak.

You, you are wonderful, spilled across pages of wonderful.
You, you have been torn sheets scattered across white crisp blankets longing to be accompanied.
You, you are hope tied strictly around index fingers.
You are a carefully sealed envelope thrown carelessly into mailboxes empty with everything but void.
You are precisely applied lipstick smeared on pursed lips,
nervous the red will smudge off your skin and become permanent on someone else.
Scared that, even if you kiss other people, the red will always stay.

I have found that I, am all but shorelines and beach waves and sandy toes and yours.
I am poised fingers stacked inbetween one another,
strategically trying not to place a hand on yours.

I want to undress for you.
I want to discard the clothes from my body piece by piece and show you the warmth that lives under my skin for you.
I want to prove to you with every ounce of sunlight you've put in me, that each step my heart takes is only to get closer to yours.
I want to strip for you.
I want to strip myself of every impurity and lay myself in front of you, vulnerably, left with nothing else but every little trace of every memory of your lips having touched my body.
You are planted into every part of me.
I hope that you never stop growing.
I hope that one day I can learn to sprout into something that is as beautiful as the way you look at me.

1) For every great skyscraper, there are petty fingers that built them.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
They were strong enough to raise a hammer, but not enough to raise a family.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
She is cold, and he is drinking, and this is our backbone.
She is alone and he is driving home too fast because sometimes you don't have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
She is afraid and he is warm, this is the beginning spark of a forrest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in. Everyone with a burden holds their confessions in their left palm and their beggings in their right and no one ends up having enough arms to hold each other.
2) One day the whole world will be in your hands too, and you'll see that sometimes darkness can blind you worse than the red glare the sun paints your vision when you stare at it with your eyes closed.
You will be brave, you will stand up straight, you will stop being royal when people stop painting Jesus with a purple robe.
Even the concrete asks the sun to make it a garden so try cracking your knuckles a little louder and maybe you will wake up as a mountain.
3) Autumn. When you wrote secrets on notebook paper and taped them underneath benches in the city park, you gave too many pieces of yourself to things that weren't made for holding that much weight.
But you said it kept you honest and there were never any reasons for me to ask you to stop giving away the parts of you I wanted to myself. It kept me humble.
4) I am alone
5) You are October in a green dress with a black mask around your eyes and you have stolen the breathe of that day. And I hope when you are 80 years old you feel a breeze sliding on the back of your neck reminding yourself of all the times it should have snapped in half during the moments of what should have been your hanging, how it takes you back to living life like you're always in the desert and stealing innocent people's money and smoking cigarettes beside rattlesnakes.
I hope you find a beach in the Caribbean that asks to be died on, I hope you learn to forgive people harder than you can cry on their shoulder. I hope you watch a sunrise that you spend the rest of your life thinking about. I feel like for that to happen you need your feet in the ocean or underneath a rocking chair, but I would settle for your bedroom.
6) But with you it was never settling.

If you've ever broke out into hives, you would understand what it would feel like to be one.
If anxiety has ever stripped your veins,
If inspiration has ever lacked the blood leaking from the depths of you that explode like title waves against rocks, you would know what it would feel like to be stung.
I've realized I haven’t been aware of transfixed rage and clenched hands trying too hard to hold on to something that loosened its grip a match and a half ago.
The fluid in my liter told me it was never really meant for cigarettes; all they ever do is deteriorate.
There is blood covering my sheets and evidence to cover up my gruesomely blank eyes.
Everything is coming back to me and it makes me wonder why I've ever given up.
They say that words sting and if bumblebees killed themselves after hurting someone else they’d be a lot more like me.
This is ripped and crumbled paper in the form of a mental breakdown.
You have composed me of jolting pupils and false accusations.
I’d rather be writing in my journal.
I’d rather be scratching down illegible ink marks than doing what I’m doing right now.
If you can hear that, it’s the sound of windows breaking.
It’s the sound of your heart forcing itself to shatter
It’s the sound you make when all you want to do is become a drone to vivid darkness and a loss of senses.
I would be a lot more like bees if their venom could actually put the living in their suitable graves.
I am substituting pain for pleasure even when I feel nothing at all.

I don’t want to be a bumblebee anymore.

I might be the only one who wonders what it would look like if daises transpired from your heart to your mouth.
If thunderstorms stop pouring from your eye sockets long enough to wonder if sunsets know what they’re competing with
if tides are aware of what they’re up against
in a world this large and with only one you
“What’s your favorite place on Earth?”
And lately I've been answering with wherever you are.
Earth has never been my favorite place anyway
and if all lips could kiss like we think they should
puddles would be lakes of pink and red and your teeth that I can’t seem to give up.
Tight skin and warm hands spare me a lie
when tongues drift into steps you never knew the language to before.
If I don't believe in heaven
and if young love is aimless
you are doing a **** good job.
I think that birds sing in the morning as soon as you open your eyes and I relate to them
I can only hope to be the flight of wings you hear in your dreams
I can only attempt to let this paper take shape of you.

I wonder how long it would take for my father to notice the cuts on my body or for my mother to notice that I sleep too much and when I do,
dreams don't come out right they come out left and sort of backwards or inside out or black and white they are never grey,
but always real.
My dreams show up in my reality and I can't wonder too long because 321LIGHTS

It's gone.

I wonder how long it would take for his touch to infect these pages
and leave stains that soak through to where he last grazed my scars.
I Don't Know If He Did.
But I think he did.
I remember the way they felt,
and I remember imagining what they felt like to him.
Maybe like acid.
Probably like 3 long years of looking at me like thin fragile shattering finger bones,
or the spine of all the books he never read.
Then why do his palms feel like a remedy
I haven't found out about yet.