your fingers would tiptoe across my palms, and it made me feel alive.

the first time you touched me, i figured out what the purpose of butterflies really were.
the first time you touched me, i almost believed you were trying to create an army of them,
    that they were going to break down the maze inside my head
    that i would become some disgustingly lovesick drone

i don’t know why i ever doubted myself

the butterflies don’t visit me anymore,
they’ve done their job.

my feelings are neutralised.
my body is numb.
and you hold me like the touch of another would contaminate me.
your embrace is a cage,
but one i have built myself.

I

slam poetry as in the way you constantly put me down using words far prettier than flowers

II

slam poetry as in the way you shatter my mind with each and every blow i take and glue it back together with poison-laced sentences

III

slam poetry as in the way i slam the door to your apartment after you say "i love you" like you really mean it

IV

slam poetry as in my mouth crushing your mouth, your lips bruising mine

V

slam poetry as in our love for each other has always been there and the chaos when we're together is too much

VI

slam poetry as in the way your car forced itself around that tree trunk after one too many drinks and one too many kisses

VII

slam poetry as in falling without fear onto a bed made for us at the bottom of the ocean

and i watch you from afar
those eyes,
those eyes
smiling that smile at my
face
i wonder if they can help it
if there is just
a part of them
that can’t resist me.
i dream on.
but they’re still there
and i swear i can feel
a hole
burning into my skin,
it makes me feel alive.
so i smile back,
and hope they have
something to tell
me

january tastes like your skin:

your goosebumps, your freckles.
every time one of us would talk, an explosion of

tongues and sighs and warm whispers would
make itself known in the air. 

i miss that. 

i miss the limbs that couldn’t tangle fast enough.
i miss the heavy breaths that taste like vanilla and strawberries.
i miss the―
i don’t know what else i miss, but it starts with you.

you reminded me of a trip i took to the countryside, one summer. the back yard of our cottage stretched out onto a field, filled with grass the colour of sand, that reached my waist. there was a tree in the middle of it all. a thick trunk, with a dusting of leaves. i always thought how perfect it would be to sit under that tree, late at night, or early in the morning (whichever way you look at it), with a stomach too full, thoughts too drunk, eyes empty of tears,

or your arms around me.

i think it was that sky, though; a robin's egg blue teasing the tips of the long grass. sometimes i looked at you and felt that sky growing inside of me, knotted with my soul in the most delicate way possible. sometimes, i still do.

when i first saw you, i thanked god silently.

i spent days thinking of ways i could talk to you, what i would say to you, and they all started with “hello” and also ended with “hello” because every time i tried to think i would see your face again in my head, like when you look at the sun and you’re blinded for a second or a hundred and all you can see is light. i wanted to know you, know you know you, and i wanted to know how your voice sounds in the morning and how your hands feel when they’re around my waist and what your favourite colour is and i wanted you to know that i’d fallen for you and i did not want to get back up again. i wanted to kiss you so hard you forget the name of all your past girlfriends and pull you close when you stir in the middle of the night and drink the warmth in your eyes. they write songs about this kind of love, y’know? the kind nobody wants because it takes over your life, ruins you? but i was honoured to be in love with you, i let it take over my life. we talked and it was nice and i was far from eloquent, but i found words. i loved you, but you would never love me, and i’m sorry, i’m so sorry

i had another one of those
dreams
last night
you know, the ones
where i live without
really living.
the ones where i’m so close
to death, it’s
questionable.
you can see my bones and
all of my secrets
and i hope you understand,
and i wonder if you have those dreams too.
surely it’s not just me.
or is it?