Definitely not the type of girl to plant
flowers on a window sill, the type to carry
softness on her shoulders or a desire to witness
hesitant, supernatural births of new morning suns with
enchantment. She was a trigger
aimed at empty clay pots, balancing
on balconies and devouring emptiness as if volume alone
would make her feel satisfied.

And her body held as much sentiment
to her as a graveyard, skin crawling in an empty house
she carried in her head. Everywhere she went
stormy impermanence concatenated
with the things she tried so voraciously to erase, like
tethers
tying her name down to insipid figures, like
beginning chapters of stories
she didn't want to hear
with a protagonist
too similar, too homespun,
to herself.

Perhaps she had intention of detonating in
her final, grand exit strategy, an elaborate move
where the Queen conquered escapism, but now
but now

no one will ever know.

I want love-
Not the little love
That makes the
heart skip, and
The face blush.
I want to indulge in the Love
That ignites the Spirit

The love that fills all voids,
Heals all grievances,
And
has no boundaries,
No limits,
And
no preconceived notions.

I want the love
That is contagious by presence.
The love that
eradicates insecurities
And replaces them with ecstasy,
I want the kind of love
That sets people free.

I don't want the love
That beats around the bush.
I want the love that
bangs
down my door,
Sets my heart
a blaze,
And keeps
fueling
the fire.

You were a transient, a charmer,
and you,
tread on my organs with your
traveling shoes
And mourned like a shape-shifter
Singing the blues

Your whispers were heavy with tentative permanence
Crooning a prologue of hollow absence