Tonight
the stars pulsate
alone.

Our hands
twinkle with sweat,

words blend
together like clouds.

Our laughter
skitters through grass

and
I feel the lulling
throb of your blood.

The moon
glows white,

evening
loops itself around us.

It's not the rain
that makes her
wet this time, again
conveying it
to him without
any dillydallying,
revealing her
intentions in
such plain terms
with a sign
language
invented, all
by herself,
leaves the mark
of the genius on this
woman, deeply
in love and lusting
her man,plain and simple.
***, robust uppermost
in the mind.prompts
yes, bold she is,
she takes things
in her hands at times.

She needs to stamp
her nature
unequivocally,
and she does it in style.

They say a torn muscle is forever weaker in its function, even upon healing, and can easily be re-torn in the same area. They also say bones never break in the same place twice. Their breaking point repairs itself to even more immense strength.

The heart is a complicated ***** with hollow chambers that pump us full of life. It is made of muscle…

But mine isn’t.

My heart is fist-shaped, covered in scars and dry blood, and every attack has left a new finger broken, each inhibiting my ability to perform at my best, but when the soreness bids farewell, so does my weakness. People like to tell me that I am strong. I am strong because my heart is always clenched and ready for the next fight. Even those who manage to open the hand will eventually be crushed by my grip. I don’t have any issues with this. As far as I’m concerned, no one will get a chance to start breaking knuckles for quite some time. Maybe by the time I’m risk-ready, I’ll relax just enough for someone to fit their fingers through my heart-spaces.

Until then, I’ll keep chipping away at the pieces of blood.

1) It puts the peanut butter on its *****
2) Finna meat sum *******
3) Classical conditioner
4) Pavlov ain't russian in the bathroom
5) He would never steak his reputation upon his looks
6) He met his husband on meatgrindr
7) His creepy uncle
8) Pavlov rools dogs drool
9) He was tired of being confused with Sylvia Plath
10) He needed all the leverage he could get on Skinner

There were days
when the ice in her pupils
would burn their victim
to a mess of frostbitten limbs
among flurries of captivity
and twirling, black masks
of hatred and woe.
There were days
when her throat seemed forever blocked
by the boulder heart that arose
to choke the breath that she wished,
when she woke each morning,
would shallow itself
until frozen in time.
There were days
when the humdrum drone
of life surrounding her,
dialogues of laughter
and dances of camaraderie,
only tipped her sideways
until emptiness set itself
deep within the chaos she harbored beneath
camouflaged skin
that was cold to touch.

Take us on a journey
through the rocky rivers that will lead us
to the mind that awakened one day,
melting those eyes
into tributaries of courage.
The aroma of rain is on the horizon.
Let it wash us away into the ocean
that splashes against the beach
where her feet tread sand,
where a breeze greets
the palm trees in the distance
and finds its way through each strand of her hair
while her eyes close in remembrance of the moment.
Freedom is just past the vantage point.
Watch as she delicately forms fists in preparation
for its fight,
and hope unburies its sanctuary inside her lungs.
The bitter taste on her twisted tongue
will soon be swallowed
in sovereignty.