I don’t really own my body with you.
When you say something kind,
it softens, and I feel at ease.
And when we descend into darkness,
everything inside me tightens.

I only really get to keep my mind –⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠
the final stronghold.
But it’s bleak in there too,
because on every single wall,
there’s a painting of you.

She doesn't need to feel
the weight of poems
on her already weakened body.

I want to give her space
so she doesn't feel smothered.

She makes a bad, bad prisoner.
I know that.
Yet I can't help
but dream of prisons
where it's just me and her.

I will walk to the end of the world
and find the harshest cliff on its edge.
I will enter the darkest, most hidden cave
and crawl through its narrow passages
until not even I can find a way out.

Then, in the deepest halls of earth,
where no one has ever been before me
and where no one will ever be after,
I will finally say what's on my heart,
what has burdened me for centuries.

I will whisper it softly at first,
then say it out loud.
And then I will scream it
until the ceiling starts to crumble.
Until it buries me with the thing
I had no one else to tell.

The draw, the pull, the quicksand,
the rope around
my neck, my ankle, my soul.
The cosmic powers
tearing me apart.

The pressure, the push,
the everclosing bear trap.
The hiding in a secret place
and then the screaming
until there is none.

I've been wanting to set sail for a while,
but now the intensity almost frightens me.
I can feel my body breaking
under the weight of this desire.

I want to give in –
to set sail toward you,
forgetting every shore I've ever known,
taking the risk, trusting the tide.

I thought I had this in my hands,
But I cannot command
nor the wind, nor the raging sea.
I know that now, as I set sail.

We sit at the table
and the white curtain
dances in the wind like a veil.
People talk
but I don't really listen.
I watch it flutter
and I see us
taking our vows.
It dances in the wind
like a veil.
Like you.

I've watered this garden for ages
Yet nothing ever grows
I've consulted botanical mages
They haven't the time for my trivial woes

I've pruned with bloodied fingertips-
Soil so stubborn, refusing to shift
I've given every pamphlet a flip
Still no signs of a horticultural gift