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erin May 20
people tell me that touching your lips to someone else's is the most magical experience in the universe.
i think that flying would a bit more extraordinary.
my first kiss
was in my back yard
on a trampoline with my ex girlfriend. we were playing spin the bottle
(i was secretly excited to kiss her, even though we weren't supposed to be in love anymore).
i expected berries
to explode in bursts of delightful flavor, on my tongue and tainting me with traces of cherry.
instead, all I tasted was lip gloss (not a good flavor) and my ex girlfriend as she reluctantly kissed back.
i doubt i'll play spin the bottle again after that.
sort of a story? hope you like it.
erin May 20
you ask me what makes my girl so special.
don't you know
that she is the eye of the storm?
a love poem about my girlfriend.
erin Oct 2018
i don't love you.
no
i simply love everything about you
i love the simple aggression of the way you write and speak, your mind which says volumes in almost no words at all.
i love the glint of determination always present into your deep dark eyes, which tell me that the strong woman inside is being trapped, trapped by the hollow cage of a girl she's been burdened with all these years.
i love the wings, the scales which shiver with every step and cast brilliant beams of light off of their sharp red wherever you go.
i love the rhythm which with your poetry echoes in me, making me feel the pain of the man, the woman, the child and the lonely girl who you talk about.
i love your friends
your interests
your love for coffee and bookstores and the rain

but i don't love you.
it's true
erin Oct 2018
when she felt his touch
she knew that there was no place like home
but the feeling was cut short
when home slapped her across the face and walked away.
for someone i don't know yet, but i'm sure that one day, i will.
erin Oct 2018
she was a tundra
the photos were so pretty
but now you miss home
about a glare i still can't escape 2 years later.
erin Oct 2018
i think i often represent the butterfly i so often speak of
frail and weak in every step- my plain brown wings are just like the papery disgusting skin i want so badly to break out of, revealing my clearwinged beauty. but i've adapted to this form- i've changed. who cares for being disgusting- better to simply scare away the predators with my big nose and buggy eyes. who cares for being unloved- i do, for solitide is survival in this concrete jungle.
but i know better.
i am no graceful, gentle butterfly. satyrs are still lovely, despite being different, and i am not lovely. i know that these white wings cannot and will not be silenced. the beating drum behind me says otherwise. i am not butterfly. i am a falcon, and i do not dare hide behind a mask of a face. no-

i fight and claw my way out of it.
this is really more of a vent than a poem, but i still feel something important in it. i hope you enjoy.
erin Oct 2018
he was her fallen angel.
his raven black wings which fragmented the light while they flew
shined onto her pale shin and forced her to shield her eyes
but no matter how much she begged
he'd never take her for a ride.
but one day, he finally lifted her
higher and higher they went,
they grazed the clouds and kissed the sky
and then he dropped her.
and only then did she really fly.
for someone i thought i knew. but now i'm not sure.
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