As soon as I think that I don’t love you anymore
You come to me with shaking hands,
Begging to be held,
And I always, always give in.

In blackened pictures, you lie in bed alone
And then that is when you think of me.
It is only when she has gone
And you are out of options
That my image comes to mind.

And by the time I realize that
I will never be your first choice,
By the time I pack up my heart
And buy it a plane ticket,
You come crawling back
And I cancel my reservations.

By the time I stop thinking
About your lips on my lips
And your hands around my waist
And the way my stomach flutters
When you say my name,
You say it again
And I am at your mercy,
Wrapped around your finger a little too
Tightly.

By the time you leave me again
And I have to force myself to unwind from you,
My imprint does not linger long
Before I disappear from your skin
And from your mind.

As soon as I straighten myself out again,
As soon as I pick up the pieces
And reassemble the puzzle of my identity
And vow to never answer another message,
You discover that you are missing a piece of your own puzzle

And call to ask if I have it.

Scarred hands of a
Tired, underpaid worker
Shake while he
Picks the beans.

Tired, underpaid worker
Sighs at the routine as he
Picks the beans
And carries them out the door.

Sighs at the routine as he
Orders the same things again
And carries them out the door.
I watch him as I sip my coffee.

As a child
I knew not
Of death and despair and
The tragedy of life.

I knew not
Where my soul resides.
The tragedy of life
Meant nothing to me.

Where my soul resides
Is in the callous palms of another, but that
Meant nothing to me
As a child.

Engulfed by the fiery licks of our argument,
You twist my words into something
Unrecognisable.
Our fragile spirits battle,
Anger prevailing over love.
I back away, take a breath,
And you do the same.

Maybe we should just sleep it off,
Let aquamarine dreams overcome us,
Let zen grow on our bodies like moss.
We can start again in the morning.

The ashes of youth spill like coffee,
Sweet and angry in the Garden of Age.
The kiss of emeralds corrupts,
The whiteflowing gossamer gown stains
With the blood of magenta flowers.
Drunk off of Death’s sting,
His marble words coat his blade with deception;
She fades into darkness, into wilted rosebuds and incense,
In the fields of June.

When daisies sprout from your palms,
Do not take clippers to them.
Do not tear them out with rage and disgust,
For they are beautiful.

You see only their imperfections,
The quiet reflections of you.

I will tend to them for you,
If you cannot bear to look.
I will water them with care, not with tears.
I will feed them with my love, not poison.
I will support them until they are strong enough to stand up on their own.
We mustn’t let them wilt.

June will come,
And I’ll be gone.

The rest is up to you.

She conceals herself in the faded corner booth of a C+ coffeeshop. Bobbed brown hair frames her face as if it were a Van Gogh original. Ruby red lips stand out against the ivory backsplash of her skin. She doesn’t feel beautiful. She draws pictures of strangers in her notebook, stares at them for far too long trying to figure them out. What they don’t realise, what she doesn’t realise, is that she’s only trying to figure herself out.