There’s a language in your eyes
I want to know like my native tongue;
Teach me how to speak to you
And feel your essence fill my lungs;
Run your fingers over me
And wherever you touch, I’ll be clean.

Heaven is the space where my hand
Wraps around yours,
And hell is every time you say goodbye
And I watch you walk out the door.

I’ve heard the whispers of saints in your laugh
and god sits on the corners of your lips.
I want to learn the art of devotion on my knees,
Deliver to me my salvation with your kiss.

I’m all yours, and although I’m a sinner,
I believe in your quiet footsteps
Like church bells sounding out
The truths I’ve been searching for, and yet -

They tell me the divine ones
Live on parchment
or locked behind heavenly doors,
But you’re right here sipping coffee
Next to me
on the floor.

Some things we trust,
Because we simply must -

The sun and stars will dance again
Though they disappear from sight;
The moon is there, singing her song,
Even when clouds hide her at night.

The ocean keeps its deepest secrets
And never ceases with its whispers;
The sky paints itself anew each day
And never finds itself running out of colors.

The grass will kiss the tips of flowers,
And the trees will wave hello and goodbye-
And we will one day love again,
Before our times on earth draw nigh.

I believed in you,
and now I believe in nothing but:
The honesty of a thunderstorm -
And the promises in a roses thorns -
And the whispers from the moon at midnight -
Nothing haunted ends up being “just alright.”

We take the blood and make it art -
From broken glass, a mosaic of shards
And present it to the world and ask,
“Will you see the depths in me at last?
Can you see me in these jagged pieces?
I’m somewhere in the truth of this mess.”

You don’t always get an answer
But the asking makes you braver,
And you grit your teeth until your gums bleed,
Turning a profit from your tragedies,
And pretend it was all worth it -
Say you’d do it all again.

But I look away from the pretty face
At the other end of the bar.
I’m not gonna chase my ghosts
To the backseat of her car.
I don’t want to make
Another showcase from my heartbreak -
I’ve lost too much blood to bleed
All over a stranger’s sheets.

So I’ll just drink my amber peace and leave,
Because I believed in you and now I believe in nothing,
But the scars you left
And the words you said
And the places I now can’t go.

There are some aspects of poetry
I wish I didn’t know.

There’s something powerful about a storm -
Transformative and destructive and cleansing.
Like a lover that kisses in passion’s throes -
All lips and teeth and bruises.
It’s beautiful in its orchestrated chaos -
Nature’s screaming catharsis.

There’s something powerful about the silence
That settles after the storm has left;
The petrichor that smells like a balm -
A tender touch, apologizing and soothing;
The calm stillness that descends and frets
Over the pretty things that stayed behind,
Petals dripping.

There’s something brave about the land after,
These survivors turning chaos into blooms,
Saying, “See us? Aren’t we the strong?
For in our delicacy, our tenderness,
Do we not grow from thunder?”

I am learning to love the me I am now
In the aftermath of you.
Your bruises have faded and I bloom;
I am learning there is something powerful
About my own petrichor,
About my own defiant petals dripping.

You were powerful, but transient.
Now, I am the pretty thing that stays and survives-
Firm and rooted and beautiful,
Taking every powerful and painful storm,
And turning lightning into art.

It's been a long time since I've been here -
this place looks so different now.
I want to make amends to these ruins,
but my tongue isn't quite sure how.

Can we kiss the scars of time?
Heal the broken years scattered on the floor?
Can we tread softly over stained memories
and promise we will stain them no more?

This cathedral was never holy;
I have never been a righteous place -
but I swear both God and the Devil have
cast their shadows over my aging face,

and now, as I stand here, breathing,
on the same ground in which I thought I'd be buried,
I wonder if all haunted things feel like this -
broken and stubborn but proud of what they've carried.

It's been a long time since I've been here -
and I see it so much more clearly now.
I've already been forgiven by these bones -
for this is the place of loving darkness finding its ground.

I am a haunted church,
but my god, am I still standing.

I would let you hurt me,
Just because I knew you'd
Heal the same wounds.

I just wanted you to touch me -
It didn't matter if it
Left blood or a bruise.

With scarlet-stained hands
and tear-streaked eyes,
I begged the Day to stitch
my soul to the sunrise

so I would cease to know
this cruel darkness within
for there are no stars here -
only howling without end.

The Day responded gently,
"You don't need me for light.
You are a child of the Moon -
this darkness is your birthright."