you **** into my heart
just that makes it hard to breathe sometimes
under your dead-weight
maybe I should move
but you settle into my limbs that cling tight around you
I suffocate myself to I inhale your heavy
I like this pressure on me
Fingers find the pressure points on you
I keep you so close
and maybe you feel smothered
a goner or a lover -
whatever; pick you poison.
If you need to,
Then you can break me too.
I got lots to share,
And you have a greedy mouth.
Filthy, those private filthy whispers,
My name sounds better when it's said by you.
Paint, how this craving paints us,
The type of colour you can never quite wash off.
I don’t scrub,
And you smile at the new stains.
If you want to,
Then you can love me too.
Together we’ll once again scrape the remains of us off the floor
Mold them into fine art
People might say it’s messy
But I know how beautiful we are
After all, I got an eye for beauty
I have an eye for you.
If we could learn to be patient with ourselves, then maybe the world would do the same.
a quote from my last poem, important enough by itself - as you are too
your hubris, your naked, your touch
how wonderful that I get to see you like this
behind my eyelids anywhere we go
those nights where your nails dig into my neck
how wonderful that I get to feel you like this
without anyone really needing to know
those days where I count your every freckle
how wonderful that I get to keep you like this
secure that every time this isn’t all for show
your sweet, your delicate, your kiss
how wonderful that I get to adore you like this
always devoted to you, my permanent bedfellow.
Stay, at least long enough for the bed to remember your shape
surrounded by brick by brick
those that form these walls
alone with dull pain in my wrist or hip
now my eyes unwillingly half-closed
taking in the light of the screen
ignoring the sun creeping up in the window in front of me
holding my breath again and again
unbeknownst to me why
but I only remember to exhale or inhale
when my body asks for it
and it's so serene that
I don’t want to break the silence
so I mumble low that this is the place for me
getting so comfortable bit by bit
to belong must be this
learning not to hate yourself or habit
after my imagination sprints away
not wondering what might have been
acknowledging the memories that keep me awake are precious to me
I'm not tired of this.
If we could learn to be patient with ourselves, maybe the world would do the same.
In the world of man
any woman could be it
and though it was you who was enchanted
blame it on her;
her wits, her charm, her garment.
Make a bonfire, we're branching out
truth hidden by the sound of chants
joined in a primal dance, inner circle only
she’ll be the one burned alive.
A bit of controversy never hurt anybody.
Witch trials seem to be a kept up tradition.
whisper out your doubts
confess to your mistakes
into an empty room by your lonesome
to the most understanding of audiences
Is this what it feels like to be independent?