connect the dots
with the freckles on my flesh
your fingers,
the pen
trace along my skin
making constellations
appear
as if I had been the night sky
all along
waiting for your touch
to set me aglow.

I’m a flower
Plucked by your hands
Love me or love me not?
I ask, as you tear me apart
And just as petals wilt and fall
Grown fragile from a summer without rain
I wither, needing nothing more than your love;
The sun, to warm me from root to tip
To be nourished, so that I too can grow
Grow to stand tall, thriving with the knowledge
That your heart is mine
Your heart; the soil of which my roots extend
Anchored firmly, I made my home here
But you tore me out like an ugly ****
A pest that was unwelcome
Amongst the beautiful flowers
That were plucked by your hand
An over crowded garden, that had no room for I
The sun never did shine on me
And so I wilt, held down to nothing
My roots still tapped into your heart
Where they will forever stay
While the rest of me was torn up
By your rugged hands; separated
And without a root to keep me grounded
I wither
And as the last petal falls
I whisper
*He loves me not.

On second thought...
am I doing this on my own?
Alone? Are we prone
To failure? One side. My side.
I care. You wouldn't dare.
What's the point when I'm doing it by myself?
You're so selfish.
Little shellfish. Hellfish. Crawl into your crevice,
home,
coping mechanism, dome,
and hide.
I can't hear you when you're in there.
But you don't speak at all.
At all. At all.
Silence hangs in air.

I wish I felt as loved as they say I am.
You can tell me you love me every single day...
hour...minute....second...
every interval and space between
But as cliché as it may be
Actions speak louder than words

At the top of your lungs you could scream
use all your force, explode with "I love you"
But if you silently brushed the hair from my face, breathing softly as you did
It would be so much clearer.
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

Holding hands is noiseless. Nothing but the
pulse
between our fingers beating in unison.
Silent to all but the minuscule space that exists between our flesh.
And still it makes a bigger sound than your
melodic laugh of "you're perfect."

If you want to make me feel loved,
show it.
Words are too easily lost.
Noise pollution.