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HR Beresford Dec 2015
You bring tornadoes through me.

Furious infatuation fills my torso.

Thunder cracks between my thighs,
the lightening is warm and shuddering.

My hunger for you is never ending,
rolling over hills like clouds about to burst.

I do not need to wait for rain.

I am drenched in anticipation,
I am trembling like the fault line.

There are no lines between us,
only a small distance buzzing with electricity.

Our tides are ripping,
Our currents,
pulling and luring.

You are the waves rising to my knees,
the breeze teasing my shoulders.

You are the calm,
You are the storm.
HR Beresford Mar 2013
I never dreamed of sitting in the meadows that blossom in your chest. I only allowed myself a small window to hope, to wish, to crave. I know now that it was big enough to climb through. We were meant to align, to feel the pull of each other, to recognize the thirst. We are lock and key. We are the lonesome trees, greeting lighting. We are the sound of jars taking their first breath after so long. We. It tastes so soft when I say it, falling out of my mouth like honey vanilla.
HR Beresford Mar 2013
I thought about running my fingers through your hair a hundred times. I didn’t. I stayed exactly as I was. I was afraid of the electricity in my hands. I did not want to start a fire on accident. I did not want to mend the burns. I thought about resting my hand on your wrist. I didn’t. I did not want to wake you. I imagined lacing our fingers together as our body temperature dropped and our breathing slowed. I didn’t. I do not know how to sew very well. I was two heart beats away from lightly placing my leg over yours. I didn’t. I was afraid of wanting to wake up beside you too much.
HR Beresford Jan 2013
My heart is a deck
with vein blue grip tape
and you are the wheels.
The trucks get looser
and looser
and before I know it
I am
across the white line,
dipping into love
like it’s a bike lane.
I cannot steer
with you
holding my hands.
The sun is a retired drum set
on my shoulders,
your hands
land on my hips
with the sound of cymbals
Our melody is silent
the sweat
and the blood pressure,
the only remnants
of the music.
HR Beresford Jan 2013
I had been flickering
for months

I became deaf
to my own white noise

I did not hear
the sizzling
of my own
dying candlelight

perplexed by
the burning
between my fingertips

I looked to see
miniscule carcinogens

I stopped feeling
the breeze
I could not calculate it
without equating it
to the swaying
of my flame

Without an internal inferno
it is cold in November

My hands are sore
from the friction
I have been causing

with gratitude
I am burning again
my heart beating
with lovely combustion
HR Beresford Jan 2013
“Do not peek under your armor,
Do not peek under your armor,
Do not peek under your armor.

You can feel the rushing of your rivers without them leaking through,
You can hear the thundering of the heart beats inside you above the murmuring of sickness.

Though your darkest parts may scream for a silver lining,
may beg incessantly to be let out,
do not let them breathe,
do not let them breathe,
do not let them breathe.

You are stronger than the snarls echoing in your ears.

Scream louder,
drown them out,
drown them out,
drown them out.”

I cannot always find my voice.
HR Beresford Nov 2012
the soil in my soles
is wet
this time of year
the cracks
filled with summer sun
are mending

the seeds
of recovery
have been carefully
placed between
my veins

with every heart beat
I can feel the green
starting to make way
to the surface

it will be a long autumn
blooming with sobriety
nursing the chrysanthemums
adorning my lucidity
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