I have hands like a wild animal
Scratching and tearing
They make a scavenger
out of me.

They have been fit with claws like blades
and bleeding knuckles.
I have hands like a wild animal.

Born and ready to take whatever they must
And conquer whatever they can
And so capable
Capable of ruinous
Terrifying things
I have hands like a wild animal.
But I have a whispering, quiet heart.
So full of inhibitions that it swells
Not on love,
But the fear of losing it.

A quiet heart. With passion like a sheep
Buried in the docile comfort
Of never going too far.

Of never wanting too much.
Of leaving.
Heading back for home
Before you ever even got off the train.

I have animal hands paired with
a cursed, mild heart.

Sometimes I wonder, with my
Shepard’s brain.
How the world could tame my heart
and forget my hands.

I can still remember the shape of it,
It exists somewhere beyond me,
Laced and reminiscent with the sugary
bitterness of a memory.

A whisper in my ear.
A chime ringing, tingling, sweetly.
My heart fills and depletes as
if living and dying in perfect synchronous unison.

A man scratches his head as he looms
over a book. Words too large for me
to comprehend, he says.
And I believe him.

He has taught me to always believe him.
So, I sit quietly and he reads.

Today my mother is here.
And she smiles through angst-ridden eyes,
But I won’t cry with her…

I was taught not to cry.
So. I don’t.

The man who is no longer.
Scratching his head and reading
wouldn’t want me to.

Love is not beautiful.
It is a great tragedy to say that,
love is an incomparable gift.
Today, all I can say of love is that
“If love is what makes the world go round, I don’t understand how it is still spinning.”
Those who play a game of ignorance and strife will say,
love is a flower to be tended to
but I am here to tell you,
It is a **** to be stomped out and burned.
Sometimes, when my heart has corrupted itself, my thoughts of love are that
Love is the only thing I would give up anything for.
I will never stop believing that
Loving someone is the most terrible kind of treachery.
I won’t lie and tell you that
Love is beautiful.

There were nights I spent,
with my hands pressed against a cold window
waiting.
For headlights that said you were home.
For the stomping of your heavy boots,
for the thud of a closing door,
for the swish of your jacket,
And your footsteps down the stairs.

There were nights I spent at that window,
hours and hours that wouldn’t end.

Today I am sitting at a different window
But I still don’t see your headlights.
It’s been seven or eight years by now
-you lose track of those numbers somewhere after three.

I am 17 today.
I was 17 yesterday too.
I will be 17 tomorrow.

I’m trying to use that as my constant
because I cannot use you.

You are the sky in a bright city.
Everyone looks up to you,
but they never find any stars.

I never needed any stars from you,
I never needed to look up and find you,
shielding me from above.
I never needed that.

I just needed your headlights,
just my window and your headlights,
the stomping boots and the door,
the swish and your footsteps.

I just needed… no
I just wanted
your headlights.