wine glasses nestled between
almost frozen fingers,
sipped by months sore from smile.

laughter warms
and makes the stomachs of
friends long familiar ache.

time can not steal the comfort
found in the stitches of
each others sweet company.

the blood of my mother is sweet.
but the blood of my father is sour.

no wonder i am certain of nothing.
even my blood does not know
how it should taste.

i wish i could take the art off the walls,
and the moon from the sky,
and brew it like tea.

add boiling water and simmer the world down
so it is just sweetness.

i wish i could take a sip of it,
early in the morning,
before the chaos begins to rise with the sun.

a sip at lunch
a reminder of the world's beauty.

and a sip at dinner, just before bed
to wash away the day.

(it would taste like freedom)
(it would taste like peace)

i burn myself,
cover limbs in dirt

wrap my shoulders in cloth
and bury the dead.

bury the aching.
and the singe.

suffocate myself
by closing the coffin lid.

hope it will smother
the scent of my burning flesh.

i'm tearing hot flesh from warmed bones,
this is not living.

i do not know how
to extinguish the flame of you.

i would rather burn
then drown in the guilt of letting you go.

i feel like a thief.

all i do is steal.

i steal views,
and feelings,
and songs,
and glances.

and sometimes i drive home from work a certain way,
slow down more than usual,
pray the sky is clear enough
just to see the city from afar.

some nights i take a long way home,
just to roam around a little more,
just to be able to sit a while longer in this freedom.
i would chase this feeling around the world.

and sometimes i sit a little longer in my car,
to listen to another song
play over and over again -
just to feel the lyrics echo through me once more.  

and i look at people a little more in the eyes,
a little longer than i should.
let my eyes wander over their cheekbones and lips,
hoping i can memorise the way they form words on their tongue.

the point is
i steal.
in the hope of feeling something
a little longer than i have the right to.

he talks of the weather
and i secretly hope that he speaks of anything else.

not because i am not interested
in the way the trees will sway
on a certain day,
or the amount of rain that
will come our way.

but because i am much more interested
in who he is.

i want to know why the weather fascinates him,
how the world makes him feel,
i want to know his favourite movie or book
(please let him be a reader)
and the way he takes his coffee in the morning,
and i want to hear about who inspires him the most.

i want to memorise all the smaller
more vulnerable things.
in hopes that one day we will run out of things to talk about,
and then we might turn and say,
“the weather is meant to be nice today.”

it was a wednesday.
i was driving to work and i thought
‘it is such a bright day today!’

no i didn’t.
i thought,
“it is such a bright day today.”

the sun's reflection off of other cars piercing my eyes,
something burning at the back of them as i try to look through the glare,
all dangerously obscuring my view.

(stop trying to sear my wounds shut when all i want to do is let them bleed)
(just let me bleed)

‘take me back to winter,’
i thought.

maybe then i can fall apart without also being burnt alive.

there are moments in a climb
where you stop,
and put down the things you carry.

either to admire the view
or to let your lungs heal
from the constant ******* in of wind.

there are moments in life,
where we must stop,
and put down the things we carry.

either to admire the the view
or to heal the ache
of constantly living.

if anyone cares enough
to ask:
“why poetry?”
i'll breathe deep

and i'll tell them about Keats.
i’ll tell them that his was the first poem
i truly ever read.
really understood.

because despite years of schooling,
i hadn’t connected with anyone else’s work,
and it was solely because he wrote what i couldn’t.
the things i couldn't yet form into cohesive thoughts.

i’ll tell them about my english teacher,
who wrote the book that ignited my love for reading,
who read the first draft of every poem i wrote,
and every poem i’ve written since.

who encouraged me
endlessly,
(even if those drafts were entirely unreadable).
and i’ll tell them that i owe her my craft.

i’ll tell them about all of my failed narratives
that still sit incomplete on my computer,
and i’ll tell them about all of the finished
and polished poetry in comparison.

so if one day someone cares enough to ask me:
“why poetry?”
i’ll tell them that i stumbled upon it,
but have chosen it since.

most importantly,
i’ll tell them that it’s what allowed me to dig
up all that i have buried.
feel all the things that i have kept hidden

underneath.

you used to say
that a glass of wine always makes things go down easier.

so when you left,
you gave me the bottle.

the wolves are at my door.

what i mean by this
is that soon i will be torn open.
guts spilling out of body
blood pooling and drowning.  

its 4:15;
the wolves are here, pushing inside.
and the moths are in my stomach.
anxiety welcomed them in,
and i can not get them to leave.

i’ll wait impatiently for a text
or a call
that will deliver sadness
on a platter and expect me to eat.

death; he will deliver the aching himself
but first he will call.
tell me to wait by the door,
so that he can tell me that he has you.

and to remind me that i never will
again.

i’ll wait for the details of the crash
or results from a test i didn't know was happening.
i’ll wait for the ‘it was so sudden,’
because ‘it wasn’t meant to happen this way.’

those moths in my stomach are telling me
that death is about to start knocking.

that he will bring the wolves
because they are about to tear me                                a  p   a    r     t.