When I took my first hit of you
I never knew it’d be like this
that giddy head buzz
while it kills me from the inside
not around and I feel deprived
you’re killing me slowly
but I’ll disregard this
because I need a vice right now
so you can be the cancer in my lungs
the reason I can’t breathe
you’ll be in everything that hurts
pulling me down into an ocean of smoke
my blackened lungs will fill with you
but metaphorically I’ve already drowned

I want to tell this to you now. But I could never find the words to tell you. I wrote hieroglyphics across your eyelids, stapled memos to your chest, and flew banners in the scenery while you dreamt.

Translations of these words alone will not be sufficient enough to tell you what I want to share.  I... Miss you. I miss you like a front tooth on picture day.

I will write meaningless poems about you
my nonexistent emotions fill blank pages
the invisible feelings will choke on the ink stained paper
disgorging emptiness becoming an extension of who I am.

but, my words still pour onto the page unwilling to stop for anything
a storm of letters against the hard white surface
which crash violently into one another
ending in a pile of bad clichés and broken pencil tips
solely because I can’t allow myself
to write meaningful poems
anymore.

We were sweat soaked sheets and *****.
Logic drowned.
Hungry lips among naked limbs,
a comfort sought in arms found.
We were stress released,
our playful violence unrestrained.
Each wanted. Searching within the other,
never properly attained.
We are fists of hair and clawed skin,
Finding ecstasy in pain.
The hurt from one another,
cover the other scars that still remain.

I traced stems on your back with my fingertips.
Rows of goose bumps lined your field of skin.
The bumps nestled softly along my fingertips.

I want to plant myself between your ribcage.
Grow closer with each beat of your heart,
blossom among your desire.

Perhaps tomorrow I can press petals into your neck;
knead leaves into the curves of your collarbones.
I want to grow with you, bury myself into your soul.

She sleeps with her arms cradling her body,
holding herself together as she lay.
Afraid she will come apart while her eyes are closed.

If you rip her open, a quilt of leftover pieces.
Pieces placed and abandoned.
Find a spot between the ribs where her heart used to be,
patch in your lies and your empty words.

Perhaps her frayed seams will finally split.
Tugging at the binding of her forearm and hand, she digs for proof.

She wishes to peel off every inch of skin sewn onto her bones,
to create a new canvas free of rips and tattered edges.