You gorgeous *******.
I like you.

You wrote our story on my skin with your fingertips, except our story wasnt gentle. It was full of cuts and bruises and that's why I have so many scars



                                B.S.

I thought to myself as I watched lightning dance across the sky north of my town.
"They must be getting really pounded up there."
But where I stood it was dry and no lightning threatened my light night walk.
So I carried on.
I never really plan these walks, I've never wanted to.
And there is no doubt in my mind.
That everyone I know spots me from time to time.
Old friends, relatives to whom I rarely speak, the black lipped girl I used to write about.
And sometimes I wonder what they think of me as I walk along.
But then my mind jumps away to other thoughts.
And its not even that I don't care which is usually the case.
It's just because on my walks I never go backwards.

i can still feel his hands around my neck.
the fingers like words and “i don’t love you” and it stings although he wasn’t the first to say it, i can’t breathe.
she haunts our hallways, our floorboards are cracking
beneath our feet, our home is crumbling
between our fingertips and
i can feel her weight on my chest. sometimes
i think that she should just go by the way that her footsteps echo after she’s gone. i remember
a wall full of holes from where his fists
kissed ever so gently.
i think that wall is what my heart might look like but lately
i’ve had trouble finding my pulse.
i can still feel his hands around my neck.
does he know
why i can’t look him in the eye? does he
know
the blue makes me feel like I’ve swallowed too much water, does he know i can’t breathe?
i think I’m still trying to understand why
beautiful things die in my fingertips and why he stomps on every rooting bulb my wilting body tries to plant, why he ripped my roots from beneath my feet and why my hair started to fall out why
he put his hands on my throat and how i still feel them there.
has he figured it out?
does he know that lemon scented bleach would taste better than
her on his lips and the *******
they splatter?
i can still feel his hands around my neck.
i was born into light, into pain, into love and
he wasn’t the first man to leave a mark on my body and i feel like he is the works with the universe to watch me fall
things fall and shatter without you touching them, things break while you’re sleeping and
everything about him and her stings like saltwater and everything about me
bends for him like light.
i can still feel his hands around my ******* neck.
he crashed into her hips like his hands to my bones, like fists to walls, the walls
rattled, my ribcage
rattled, he was
rattled and i can still feel his hands around my neck,
pushing, like me trying to ******* make this work.
what is this?
his hands are like ghosts around my throat,
the memory of her wrapped around his body instead of me
wrapping, holding in place
icanstillfeelhisfuckinghandsaroundmyfuckingneck
i am not stupid you know.
i can only see that he moves like these words write themselves, and he
speaks like music bleeding through a closed window,
i swear, i am still cracked
though i still have tattoos left from the tips of his fingers from those heavy-handed nights,
i swear, they didn’t even sting.

You are a piece of paper at the bottom of the sea. You crumble in hands. From them, your pieces float in even greater depths. In our air you lose your breath, forever unread.
You are a dream slipping through the fingers of my awakened mind. You leave, disappear, come back only as as inexplicably familiar scene, an unusual word, a weird movement, proof that you once reigned, all shadows and reflections, molds of a long gone foundation.
You are a melody whose notes I cannot write, but only hope they fade away as slow as possible.
You are my unimaginable, unfathomable, inconsistent.
If i were a scientist, you'd be my famous discovery. If i were a philosopher, you'd be the purpose I seek.
But I am an artist. So you will remain my inspiration, my everlasting persistence, my spasm and my movement, a hope for my best piece. And they say those are never finished.
Very simply, or most complicated, you are, and forever will be, my noise of the sun.