he·don·ism
ˈhēdəˌnizəm,ˈhedənˌizəm/
noun

knowing that somebody is going to hurt you
but chasing after them blindly
nonetheless.

i write my best poetry
about the collar of your shirt
the spaces between your fingertips
the warmth of your chest
the curve of your bottom lip
and the way that i have not
even experienced
any of them yet.

with your arm around me
and your warmth engulfing me
i realize why i often speak of you
in metaphors of fire and flame.
each word you utter,
each glance you sneak,
feels like strikes of red
against my matchbox heart,
surrounded by newspaper and brush
doused in gasoline.

tattoos sit where marker scribbles
once graced our freckled skin,
and cooties have evolved into
a new kind of plague.
the innocence of youth
is now few and far between;
our purity has melted away in the sun
like the wax of a candle.
who are we now?
what is this change?
is anything the same?

you are the tide and i am the shore.
you come and go as you please
while i lay in waiting for you
to return and kiss me once again
the way you did before.
the repetition does not teach or change me
for i am malleable.
i remain because of the hope that you will return
once again after each departure
you make from me.

i am drowned in my own affections
and afflictions;
each day i fall again and again
for both new and old.
why am i so burdened by love?
why does it seep like honey,
like sweat
from my every pore?
why do i want everyone’s love
all to myself when i am so
full of it for dozens?

‘maybe it was all of those books i read in middle school,
filling my head up with hopeless things’.
if i could i would stitch you up
but not before coating your insides
with yellow paint to keep you
warm and full of life,
she said
‘come keep me and my paranoia company’
but if it were up to me
i would **** up every ounce of darkness from you
and hold it as my own.