I am filled with blood and guts.
Nothing more,
maybe less.

My skin is splitting at the seams like a poorly made children’s sweater,
being worn by a planet so big
that it becomes its own universe

at the end of my life,
I don’t think
they’ll be any poetry
left to write.

She plucked dandelions from the earth,
as if they were ingrown hairs
living under her skin.
For the earth feels no pain,
and weeds only grow back.

Snowflakes melt,
flowers die.
Some things only last a summer,
but she had already seen a snowfall this May.

The life of a yellow plant can’t be fair,
nor can that of a woman without joy.
We breathe,
we pick,
we...

The solid green field is now a reminder of all she wanted,
and all she feared.

Where do they go,
the dead dandelions?
Rot back into the soil that birthed them?
Press into an immortal being?
One thing is for certain;
those dandelions will never feel at home again.

-and maybe that’s for the best

My blood still flutters
at the thought of you being
all I thought you were.

My face gains a freckle
every time
I remember that you and I watch
the same sunset every night.

Is it ever gonna be enough?
Treading water is getting old.
Can’t live with you,
can’t live without you.

Why do spring and autumn look the same here?
Tears always taste saltier in April.
May flowers never come.
Why,
on the day I felt most afraid,
did the water in the creek stand still?
Doesn’t the water care about me?
Does this creek not weep for the dying trees around it?
For the fish whose corpses quietly float down on it’s floor?

This crow seems to know.
Alone, he squawks,
mauking my pain.

Maybe I’m the stranger,
The irrelevant dot in a map more complex than my cogged brain can understand.
Or maybe the world does dance all around me  each day,
Choosing to ignore my thoughts and actions.
But it’s selfish to think like that, right?
Or perhaps that’s just me falling in love with myself.

I want to feel loved.

I crave the melting of flesh into mine.
Boiling pores and sweating fingertips
tracing my face.
I lace myself into your hair and make myself a nest.
I am safe,
but not for long.

For I will never feel safe again,
not in your arms,
not in the arms of any.
I am *****,
soiled,
used,
empty.

I am not a body of love,
No longer a *** of milk tea
on a cold day.
Watercolour stains wash away with water.

I am viper,
I am splinters,
hangnails,
and paper cuts.

I will never be soft again,
and it’s your fault.
I will never forgive you for that.