I said I love you,
you, I love you more.
But what you don’t get is that there’s
nothing more
than loving the one that you adore,
even as they tease their skin with the
sharp points of a blade.
I will always love you more,
more than reason, more than is safe.
You’ve captured my heart, soul, mind
and I could never walk out that door,
no matter how many
tracks cross your skin,
no matter how many broken promises
of newfound strength float into the air.
I love you more.

My heart feels blocked, my fingers unable to unlock its doors.
Perhaps time moves too fast
for it to be processed.
Or maybe this icy chill has crept in
through my thick curtains and made its home
in my chest.
My heart, my mind are numb.
Where are you emotions? Where are you poems?
The words don’t pour out anymore,
I’ve seemed to have lost my voice
or maybe I’ve gotten used to being silenced.

I remember his voice, pitched-low,
a smooth glass of Scotch, but hard to swallow this time.
Tension unfurled in my stomach, foreboding locked my legs.
My hands quivered, I shoved them away,
eyes down, my firm voice, met with anger,
outraged at this personal slight.
We walked by, granting space for his rage,
his ego too big to share the street, to let us walk by unbothered.
Rejection hung in the air, weighed down by our fear.
The sounds of his steps, his speech coming faster more aggressive,
mimicking his steps.
My head spun, the air came too quick, panic pounded at the door
to my head, pressing its way in.
Our feet began to slap the ground, **** these sandals,
a call to him, an encouragement, us defenseless in the emptied street.
The elevator felt unsafe, plain and empty walls.
My window was securely fastened despite the heat,
door double bolted, shaking on the bed,
free from adrenaline and moved by fear.
The room was too empty, too vulnerable,
comfort only from my feeble connection to my home.
Sweaty, tired hands of mine clutched it to me,
falling asleep with the safety of his voice,
swirling around me, shoving off the unwanted
traces of chilling words and tear-stained makeup.

I grew up with trees,
The orchard filled with light and the soft breeze
which came by daily
My trees had strong roots, unfurled deep into the soil,
rooted in humanity and beautiful for it.
I loved my trees, strong as they were,
a guide to a girl lost in the night.
My trees.
Then they came for my trees, when I was away
Tore at their bark and lashed at their roots,
peeling away the moss.
My trees, the branches of hope given to me,
the support and shade, dependably there.
Hurt, but not broken,
my trees do grow tall,
healing as the seasons go.
The scars still remain, etched deep and cruel.
My trees fight
Push away with sharp branches and unforgiving bark,
resisting the rough whispers of the night,
the ugly grabbing hands, the yielded axes, biting words
unjustified, entranced by our bursts of bloom,
our heavenly perfume. Why must we fight them off?

I’m that fiddle in the corner,
Broken down and cob-webbed up.
Passed over for the shiny violin,
sleek, pure sound and powerful notes,
I’m dull in comparison, squeaking out what I can,
strings worn by age and disuse.
I was beautiful once, cherished, put away free
of finger-prints and dust.
The lid closed for longer each time,
I mourned the lack of sun, lost my voice to time.
I am a fiddle still,
but I’ll soon sink into grime.

Kiss my insecurity,
erase the doubt beneath.
Hug me close, chase away the chill of fear.
Murmur words of comfort,
the rhythm of your voice will carry me away.

I won’t get your name tattooed on me,
just in case