i don't want to write
because i know if i do
i'll only be staring back
at reflections of you

but my words have been silenced
for long enough, they cry
to be let out
to be shouted to the sky

it's hard to remain
so calm and even-keeled
when i'm stitching shut a wound
that isn't ready to be healed

but i'm back on my feet
i've gotten off my knees
learning that i'm the only one
i need to please

you can call me cold
i really don't care
but for once i feel okay-
i'm becoming happy, i swear

it's been about three weeks
and he's still constantly on my mind
and while each thought reminds me
of a better time

i'm unlearning the taste
of his lips and his words
forgetting what it felt like
to be someone's "girl"

because being with him made me forget
that i am my own
i don't belong to him or
anyone else
and i am my home

if  you want to make "home" a person
don't make it anyone but you
you're the only one guaranteed
not to just pass through

so i guess this is the start
of my journey to self-love
of acceptance and growth
and belief in the above

and while i'm still not great
i know i'll be there on my own
so thank you, ex-lover,
for teaching me how to be alone.
-a.c.b

Forgive me for prying into your world,
all I have to say for now...
I'm settling scores from years ago,
within a sphere of wondering how.

The rattled brains have long dissolved,
their words painted a tired obsession;
I've run far away from tragic claims,
and fake magnanimous confessions.

As I raise the lantern above my head,
where freedom finds its holy name;
A phantom cry explodes out loud,
impervious to the acid rain.

Now don't bewitch me with your spell,
bewildered promises from the past;
Pushing against your own reality,
eventually surface from the blast.

Good night is all I have to say,
goodbyes can be reckless and harsh;
But soon you'll find me disappeared,
wading slowly through the devil's marsh.

constricted by an ophidian
i slither away, just to live
is this where new life begins?
is this where i shed my skin?

bitten by fangs of chagrin
where to win is to never forgive
hiss with this abyss within
i'm living in a pit of sin

with my vision wearing thin
venom is a gift to give
i slip beneath the rocks again
this is where i shed my skin

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Ei0ubfaLek

Last night I couldn’t let another body
Touch mine
Even though his was just as soft
His hands did not graze quickly over
They stayed put in places for seconds
Sometimes minutes at a time
Like I was the earth itself

My body is not meant to be touched
Or so, I tell myself
Letting walls down means being held
Being held means holding
I don’t want to hold him

I don’t want to hold anyone
I want to be alone
Alone is safe haven
Where depressing pigment is worn in confidence
I want to be alone with myself
Where I can win and lose in two,
No matter which of the halves are left on top

I don’t want him on top of me
On top of me means I am under
I have been underground for months at a time
Trapped by different permanents
Whether demon or person

I don’t want to be a person with feelings
Feelings mean being pried open,
Mean my nails have grown weak in my door crevice,
Mean the floorboards are ready to be lifted

You shouldn’t try to lift me from this
As if you could
As if you would

Last night I couldn’t think of another body
Touching mine
Even though they may be just as soft
Their hands graze quickly over
And find new homes to stay in by nightfall
For days, sometimes weeks at a time
The home inside me welcomes barely

My body was not meant to be touched
As long as I told myself
Cages are meant to be kept around me
Locked in means locking you out
Write poems about wanting to hold me

I didn’t want to hold anyone
Wanted nothing but to be alone
Alone is safe haven
Where depressing pigment is worn in confidence
Being alone with me is part of a muse
That replays how people break in two,
No matter whoever’s halves are left on top

You knew not to be on top of me
Not to ever let me be hurt from under
I have been underground for months at a time
Scarred by different permanents
Whether demon or person

I didn’t want to be a person with feelings
You were careful not to pry me open,
Undress drapes unhooked like shower curtains,
Upon wet stone floors begging me to slip

You wouldn’t ever let me slip
As if you could
As if you could

artists suffer
for their art,
but poets
live in hell;

they rule
the fire
that others
merely
tried
adapting
to.