rage--
an ember planted
deep within
my firey, burning heart

I was born in fire
Earth my reason to live

We fell in love
In the summer
And as the colors changed,
He did too.
Only,
His change was not as beautiful
As the choreography
Of red, orange, and yellow leaves,
But rather the remains
Of the dead tree branches,
Leaving only
Cold,
Empty,
And eerie thoughts
Whistling in the autumn wind.

I wonder why
I write love poems to strangers.
To concepts.
To moments.
I wonder why I feel so strongly for things
I can't possibly know.
I wonder if writing love poems to strangers
Hurts them
Or celebrates them.

I still sleep with that white sweatshirt
To this day.

Father mosquito
drank my blood
and promised me
that there was a lot
to live for:
***, money,
women, love,
food, water.

But *** is only worth
the ten seconds
after I ***:
the ten seconds
where my body breaks
but not my heart.

And money is an idea
that belongs to someone else.
So, the money I have
never really is mine.
The things I need,
I'll never have.
The things I have,
I'll never need.

I do love the softness of women,
Father Mosquito.
You have understood me
once.

It's just underneath
my skin.

But you say love
and no love
is as important
as self-love.
No lips stitched into mine
is worth the feeling
unless I understand my worth,
and you're currently
*******
it
dry.

What happens when food
loses its taste?
And water is no longer cold?
What happens when
my body fails me?
Drink my blood
since it is yours, too,
father.

It's just underneath
my skin.