"that's not poetry, that's shattered glass
and half empty ***** bottles"

"you're not a poet,
you're smashed, broken
and hiding between words, names,
typewriter keys and his handwriting.

you're all broken remains,
a skeleton trapped in skin,
and it's cut me to the bone"

I am the poem
I refuse to write.

My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.

I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.

the moon wrapped itself
around your face,
as if like a mask,
protecting you from the monsters,
hiding something that I still don't know,
as street lights dissolved,
silently, oh so quietly,
into the night sky,
contesting and wishing
to become the stars held together
with moments like this
and that and who and where:
I'm still
not there.

You perpetually "see" me shining amongst stars
and call me your entire galaxy,
whilst reminding me that the constellations
will never equate to the size
of your heart for me.

This is not starlight,
or moonlit ***.

This is dilated pupils and the ***** light of 2am
shattered on cold bathroom floors
where the fragmented coldness of my skin
freezes
the feelings you say
should thaw my scars, melt them
and heal me.

when liquid starlight formed
in his eyes
and trickled into
the formed cracks in my palm,
I was no longer sure
if I was his moon
or just a cast reflection.