although i sign my name
at the end, it’s really you
who should take the credit.

after all, they’re all about you.

the words with which i write with
are from the dictionary you invented.
you see, i didn’t even know i could
write until my soul met yours.
all these letters i’m using are from the
alphabet you’ve imprinted in my heart.
all these poems are from the melodies
i hear when i think of you.

this, my love, is how i write poetry.

{d.f. | 09/11/17}

we get it, poets. things are like other things.
this is a familiar concept to us all so why do we speak in metaphor all the time?

it is because when we tell you we feel like our insides are on fire,
we feel as though we are a house that is burning down until all that remains is a fragile frame accompanied by a pile of ash,
it is not a metaphor

it's a simile, notice my use of like or as

but it is not a metaphor

when you stick a cigarette between your teeth you do not fail to light it
the thing that does the killing will **** you
and you will let it

when you write down the exact amount of pills you took and the number of days you felt worthless tallied into your stretch marks
there is no metaphor there

my poetry isn't metaphor
it is a direct reflection of honest to god feelings
I have never written a poem not meant literally

we get it, poets. things are like other things.
but that is a simile.
things are not other things.
we do not speak in metaphor.

it hits you mid-shower,
as you're half trying to keep soap-suds
out of your eye and half attempting to figure out
if you've got split ends yet -

one minute you're thinking of nothing at all
and the next you suddenly realize,
you love him.
you like him? you love him? the word ceases to matter.

oh god, you love him.

you love him for how the corners of his eyes
crinkle up when he laughs,
for how he cares if you're home safe,
for how the first thing on his bucket list
is for his grandmother to hold his first child.

for how you could sit with him for hours with
nothing but your shoulders touching,
and be complete in the warmth he exudes
in comfortable silence.

for how he talks and how he walks,
for how he looks at you,
for how his eyes seem to have endless depth.

and the funny thing is that you know you've lost the game
but you don't care that you've lost, you don't care
if he loves you back or if he doesn't because
in that moment you have remembered
what it is to love a person not for what they look like
or for what they sound like but for who they are

and the knowledge that after two whole years of bitterness
and hiding away in your shell
you have discovered what it is to love again
and nothing else matters in that moment because
for what it counts you have found yourself again
in loving someone and you realize that

your heart has so much left to give; who you
choose to give it to does not matter as much
as the knowledge that you are capable of loving,
the kind of love that does not fear hurt or pain
but embraces it as part of the essence of love.