I dont care anymore if my art pleases you,
I dont care for my words to be an intricate weaving that will stay etched in your mind
I dont care if they heal you, hurt you
I make my art for me, it hurts and sometimes it heals
Sometimes it does nothing at all
It is art nonetheless
- A note from the poet.

I am searching for all the things I had to say to you
before dissapointment came and took them from my mouth
gave them to her
disguised as love letters, from you.

I dont think the universe is ready
for the poetry my fingers have stored in them for when you finally leave me, hell, neither am I

heavy metal tears wait at the edge of your eye
this heavy metal heart cries riffs of blood
the surface of your finger sways storms of stories on strings
every beautiful bruise makes a drop for you to sing,
into showers of stories,
into the hurricane of a song
sung every august, heard every june.

"I sipped on your serotonin lips
like they were made to satiate my thirst
for a liquid i had only once drunk before
my palms like magnets to the moons crescent smiling down your face
my eyes sleep at the sight of stars hanging under my eyes
blue skies underline my waist
clouds of grey hang from my lashes
the blood of autumn covers my face in the night as i wake to another set of blue skies, divided, divine and heavy, opening portals of purple and green inside my skin
still sipping your serotonin lips, now serotonin arms and feet, do i dare fleet?
i change into the sky I watch, the dust on the street, the leaves i breathe, we look alike."

i am incapable of being left with myself
because
it is like being left
alone
with a stranger