What I am trying to say is,
I am well aware that it matters not whether I am with or without you;
I will keep moving,
but I much prefer your limbs with my limbs,
and I enjoy the tragedy you think makes you unable to be loved,
and I'm sorry I didn't touch you a little bit longer,
and when you're here I feel it,
and when you're not I feel it too.

by : Alexandra Crawford

I mistook the candles burning in your veins
For popsicles on a day like July 16th
On the plains of a desert in Dubai
You always cooled the smoke around me
Always kept me from ferrying the wrong way
Even on the hardest to fly occasions
But I didn’t see
(I guess you were burning so bright
That I always took it for your natural light
Like the moon at 12:47 am)
That you were aching so hard you left burnt marks on me
I’m sorry I ran to the ice-cream truck
When what you really needed was an ambulance

pale flesh
against pale sheets
writing on pale paper
but her heart is red
and the vessels bleed love
and the pulse plunges deep
some days she is colorful
and others she is dark
but either way it's because of love
her hesrt tugs and weighs
like a bursen to feel so much
it's her blessing and her curse to linger with blood stained fingerprints all over him and open wounds in her flesh but he patches them with kisses
and they bleed together

The Garden Boy has eyes greener than the grass that will sometimes be the color of the dirt too
The Garden Boy reminds me of a distant galaxy because he is so close yet unreachable
The Garden Boy spends his time learning about the world and dreams of changing it
The Garden Boy met my eyes under the full moon and his parted lips were saying words that he never would
I wish The Garden Boys’ hands were welcoming to mine
The Garden Boy has a love he can’t admit
The Garden Boy is the garden boy because he reminds me of all the different flowers and the sunshine that blesses them and the sky that changes paintings every evening and he reminds me of the storms that he hates and the sunshine that he loves and the rain dripping from my eyes as I thought about how beautiful he was
The Garden Boy loves the world but I don’t think he loves me
The Garden Boy probably doesn’t have a garden
The Garden Boy is a poem of leaves turning orange as fall descends from the heavens
The Garden Boy told me he likes my hair but maybe he’s receiving wavelengths from a different star and my hair is red
But Garden Boy, I want us to be purple

Sometimes the words I love you swarm like hornets behind my teeth, a phrase so heavy it only has eight letters just like I lost you.
Sometimes in the pause you take before you speak, I wonder if you’re fighting to keep down the same things as I am; trying to swallow a confession that seems less like a secret and more like stating the obvious.
We were funny, we were bad at holding hands, I hated when a car goes over the tracks, you had this way of making silence the loudest sound in the room when it hit the floor.
I made a home out of your hands just like how many beautiful things go without reciprocation.
We seem to have found fault in being whole, somewhere alone the way, we’ve started enjoying breaking things;
Like my ribs when you’re gone and I want to know if you can tell the difference between the absence of my voice and silence.
You are the only thing I’ve ever let go that makes my hands ache.
I’m still trying to piece together what made you lose your faith in me, was it how everything starts with gritting teeth and everything ends with you walking away? I should’ve known, the way you used to hold my back like you were checking it for exit wounds.
It took me 2 car wrecks and 6 shattered mirrors for me to realize that the world has so much more to say when it is silent;
if I didn’t bruise so easily, if I wasn’t looking for a way to be made of a river, if I needed the silence to mean something, then I would ask you to build me out of quiet revenge and goodbyes that stick in your sides like tree branches, I would need you to build me out of reasons to believe instead of reasons to be afraid, I would turn my kneecaps into strawberries in exchange for potter’s hands so I could mild you a bulletproof spirit.
It was silence and your lighter, I was cold, you were drinking; that was our backbone.
You were alone, I was going too fast because sometimes you don’t have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
I am afraid and you are warm; this is the beginning of a forest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in.
I spend nights up until my body can’t handle itself any longer,
mornings have come like a hammer to my head-
instead of my face, all I can see in the mirror is an unfamiliar expression,
something like a dead battery.
All I ever wanted was for you to be my fire, I am tired of these old lives and would like to see them burn.