I think he’s worried that if he gives me the keys I will walk into his heart and immediately start redecorating. He has things set up the way he likes and he doesn’t want his posters torn down for wall decals of birds and quotes about love. He knows (it’s happened before) that most people can’t help but want to change things. No matter how much they like the way it looks, they can’t help but get started thinking what if… They have their ideas about how it should look. They want to put in their night tables and their paper lanterns. They want to make your heart theirs.
And when they leave (which they inevitably do, we are all some sort of nomad) they take some parts and leave others and you are left with a half full, cluttered heart. You have to make the long and painful decisions about what belongs there; try to remember what was there before she came. You try to sift out which parts of you she built, and which parts are worth keeping.

What he doesn’t understand about me is that I am not in the habit of making homes. I don’t like too much to stay. A blanket, bed and books are all I need. So he can keep his posters, and hang whatever lights he wants. If I admire the décor its only because I can see the way it lights up his eyes.
So I keep knocking, I keep peeking in the windows. And he keeps stalling, putting things in their right place, worried that if he lets me in I’ll start knocking things down.  And I can’t claim to not be a master of messes. I can’t claim I wont throw my laundry on the floor, and forget to scrub the toilet, and get sugar in the crevices of all the kitchen appliances for some late night cupcakes.
But I am not the type to move furniture. And when I’m gone it will be all yours again, every quiet corner. Maybe just a fingerful of sugar lingering behind a clean coffee mug will remind you that I was ever there at all.

You make my heart hurt. I'm not going to be all poetic and say, "Oh how I long to be with you." I am simply going to say, "I love being around you."

My stomach does triple flips when I'm around you and sometimes I wonder how I manage to not spontaneously toss my cookies when I see you.

My heart thinks it is a metronome, a broken one for that matter. My heart thinks it has the stability to beat faster than 250 bpm (maybe someday it'll realize that it can't).

My brain constantly forgets what day of the week it is, or what time I'm supposed to take my medicine, but miraculously it remembers your birthday, your least favorite color, and your middle name.

Lastly, my soul is unsure of so many things; which way is right and how to face the things which I fear, but the one thing my soul is set on, is you.

Empress of cacti
Queen of the Night
She is resplendent
A fairie in flight
Glowing... a phosphor
With her inner light

The moon, her companion
They dance in the dark
Wooing and spooning
A'courting a spark
But they'll hearken to morning
Yes... they'll soon part...

They mourn at their parting
Such is their plight.

Her face alabaster
Her fingers so slight
She's proud and she's perfect
Her shoulders pure white
Of noblest bearing

The Queen of the Night.


SøułSurvivør
(C) 3/26/2018

I think sometimes my nose is pulled so high into the air that I am a skyscraper
that my ears hear only Birds
that my skin feels only wind
but my ears
that is not what they hear

they hear
“hey baby”
“****... girl...”
“What u doin all alone”

my skin-
feels their hands
feels their selfish - dominance
their greed, for my, body

so my nose, goes higher up.
while my heart, sinks further down
I cannot ignore their words,
or rather, I should not ignore their words for my own protection
because that makes me feisty
makes me unattractive
makes me stingy
to withhold myself from their, greedy, hands
so I must respond
or at least acknowledge
be confident
be ignorant
pretend you didn't know it was anything more than a compliment
flash them a smile
continue walking

and Oh...
don't forget to say
thank you.