If there is ever a time
that I do not ask you to come home
or to come closer
please worry
please proceed anyway
despite whatever my pleas may be.
I only want you to show me
what it means
to be loved to death.
If you love me like you say
I will tempt your softness
I will nurture a knife under the bed we share
our so-called-sanctuary.
Do you mind its company?
The moment you do
you'll find yourself empty
with nothing left in my tracks
but the knife
where my silhouette used to be
and a locked door.
I will miss you
until I won't anymore
and you'll beg the walls of your own bedroom
for me to come back.
I'll be **** sorry
when I forget the directions
but remember your address.

Layers upon layers
Of not only sheets
But hands
Limbs
Bare to hairy legged ratios
Creating symphonies of friction
Laughs outweighing *******
Clanks of teeth forgetting the catastrophe
Of love over lust.

Innocence is better preserved in a glow in the dark jar
Stuffed with children's movies
Until heavy-lidded two am’s
Versus using creaks of beds
To drown out the white noise
Of are we really happy?
Buzzing in our ears
Like gaudy flies with lightning blue wings
That we wish to swat away
squish between the two of our lips
until we taste subduing blood
or better yet
disguise the insect in a pretty costume
and play pretend.

Flowers sprouted from my mouth
Orange roses
Yellow marigolds from yours
When we kissed for the first time--
What a hybrid we made.
I was too busy dissolving in the scent of young love
Fickle on my tongue
To taste any blood.
I plucked the stems from their safe haven
And the linger of your lips
I planted them in their new homes
Little glass vases
Dying faster than they could be cured
withering, crunching away
one sickly petal at a time
because they couldn’t recognize survival
couldn’t grow in a home
that was a house without you.

Flowers can last weeks without sunlight
From my experience.
All they need is a dark room
And hope that the sun will return
And they will breathe as the days breathe
Follow its daily dance
But do they blossom
Or do they beg?

Grow old with me
As we’ve grown young
At the early hours of the morning.
Can we sprout limbs in bed
Climb to our highest peaks
Find hollows just big enough to hide our wounds
Can we strip our bodies to the bone
Unwrap our skin to reveal gardens
Plants born of rainbows
Can we kiss to nurture
Laugh to tend
Litter love as seeds?
As I break from my hinges
Soil turns to dust
Crumbling beneath your feet
May I still ask:
Will you grow old with me?

I am tired of waiting for December
with her white teeth and prolonged visions of lace veils
to get dressed
put her makeup on  
before taking the long road back to me
weary of her indirection
as if she can't remember the short way
as if she wouldn't drive 200 miles
guilt heavy in the trunk of her car
for being so far away
just to steer clear of me
because you can't build a fire
in the middle of an ice storm,
or her cold shoulder all the same.
There is no use in laying in the sun
when the possibility to thaw
is below 0.
I am tired of missing December
each time January melts away.

I once knew a boy
who perceived the darkness in me
as if it was some benign escape into light
sweet and warm
almost fireworks.
Little did he realize--
fireworks are explosives too.

I once knew a boy
who lit up more houses than he was invited to.
He was a match in a fire place
the slap of a broken flashlight against a palm
a candle illuminating barely visible text
and a scorn of "I never asked for this."

I once knew a boy
who was so bright that he burned the sight out of every eye that looked.
He would apologize
remainder of green-veined eyelids
stuck in its trap of reincarnated ashes
held like water in cupped hands
wrinkled with healed burns,
lacking time.

I once knew a boy
who I promised would never become a victim to the account of my life
that I would never let his most used adjective become "once."

I once knew a boy
whose hands shook terribly bad
when I asked him to load my promises in his mouth
and hold them to my head.  

I once killed a boy
who played with fire
before accidents could replace me.

The only thing I’ve ever been able to see without squinting through bad eyes has been ugly
and stupid
and worthless
each adjective another bullet to the body of someone who is already dead.
I left the bullets where I thought they ought to be—right where they were—lodged between vital arteries and anything dangerous; they were equally acidic beings occupying the same profane space.
I allowed my skin to grow over them as much as it rioted.  
I wanted to remind myself that they were a part of me now
that the least I could do was let them be
the way I had never been.

I have always been a non-believer,
naturally a very-much-believer slipped into my line of fire the same way the sun peeps its shy face out of grey.
But it took more than prying me out of my pad-locked shell to make me a believer too.
It took swimming the length of the ocean to find me in my shell first
then slaying the eight-legged monsters that shielded me from all things good
and every time I unwound the bandages in front of you that encased my wounds
inflicted from the sour tentacles of the beast you had to fight away
I expected the sting of your fingers fresh with sea salt to sting like hell
but you would remind me of how often you wash your hands
only not after touching me--
never after touching me.
I wasn’t familiar with the smell of flesh without it being doused in sanitizer;
The mess of my pain was just more dirt on their skin.

You were my savior
the only hero ever willing to carry a dead body with the same caution as someone who could still thank you with their lips—not cold.
You were red wine and I was holy Sunday
gnawing at the body of Christ
but you learned how to consume me still
without just swallowing me whole
instead savoring even the most overbearing bites of me that reeked of its expiration date.
You taught me how to let myself be consumed by something other than ugly
and stupid
and worthless.
You taught me how to let myself melt in the warm safety of your tongue
that vowed to speak of only sweet things.
But trying to recall that lesson was quieter in my ears
each time I urged myself to complete the daily routine of supplying you with a special pair of scissors
expectant that you would dig deep into my body
like everyone else always had
knowing that the gashes you created would heal slower and leave scars uglier than scars inflicted by the hands of anyone else.
I pushed my already-open cuts in your face
shut eyes and gritted teeth
awaiting the familiar feeling of the people you love
making their marks
in the center of your back.
But I watched your mouth form something that I didn't know could sound soft, something like "n-o", the first no that ever sounded as sweet as a yes.
No new stab wounds,
no tearing of tight flesh.
All you did was re-stitch me.
You caught my blood in its vanishing act.

With every stitch I watched as past words lost their dictionary meanings
ugly: beautiful
stupid: smart
worthless: worth it.
You drug me out of my grave and took the time to dust me off the way no one else had
hushed the knives in my own hands dripping in my own blood to fall to the ground
spoke the magic words that opened the gates of my chest so that you could squeeze the life into my heart again.
You took the eyes from your own skull for the sake of making a better scenery out of myself.

I don't have to squint anymore.
I can see "worth it" taking form of "worthless" miles across the street
and as you place your petal hands on my head and tilt one last time
I am watching myself do the same.