Definitely not the type of girl to plant
flowers on a window sill, the type to carry
softness on her shoulders or a desire to witness
hesitant, supernatural births of new morning suns with
enchantment. She was a trigger
aimed at empty clay pots, balancing
on balconies and devouring emptiness as if volume alone
would make her feel satisfied.

And her body held as much sentiment
to her as a graveyard, skin crawling in an empty house
she carried in her head. Everywhere she went
stormy impermanence concatenated
with the things she tried so voraciously to erase, like
tethers
tying her name down to insipid figures, like
beginning chapters of stories
she didn't want to hear
with a protagonist
too similar, too homespun,
to herself.

Perhaps she had intention of detonating in
her final, grand exit strategy, an elaborate move
where the Queen conquered escapism, but now
but now

no one will ever know.

"Your body, beats
Your name, maims
Your scent, suffocates
Your smile, slays
Your voice, violates
Your lips on mine are like a knife in my spine
Your skin, stings
Your eyes, paralyze
Your hair, hurts
Your mind's, unkind
Your cuteness, cuts
Your beauty's, brutal..
But even now, after stating all the attributes that I  loath.. I truly can't think of one thing about you, that I don't love.."

The dizzying effect of
your fingertips
has set my mind at ease

To foreshadow the moon
and your crystalline lips
as the whispers descend
on the breeze

Could your heart beat still?
For everything will
culminate the sins of the day

For my delicate abandon
will completely command us
with love
I shall never betray.

Pretty little pantomime
I'll give you a nickel
if you'll give me a dime
For what it's worth,
an infinite junk -
a plausible answer to the
poison you've drunk.
Creation to me,
without your denial
could never create
your inebriate child
But hush, dear heart -
the moon's been low
Forget the nonsense
here begins my show.

You are my passion
divine influence
under the moon
between my lips
you are infinite
and I would die for
the likes of you.

I miss being kissed
Miss the way its unexpected
strangely exquisite mundane
to know
there are lips
    waiting
         loving
               needing
your own

Not so much for the own desire
maybe for the satisfaction
inky safe preoccupation
of proving
     your existence
          deliverance
               and desirability

and to not be alone.

Soft skin, a subtle glance,
it is this that I miss.

She needs to be kissed.