I hate that my pain
Is so easy for you to dig
Your hands into
I hate that I write poetry
To spread as much good
As hurt you've given me
I hate that you can preach
About forgiveness
When you know more
About my body
Than Christianity
I hate that my life
Will always be a reoccurring nightmare
I hate that I cannot silence you
Because you are still
The blood inside my mouth

Teach my nerve endings to breathe,
That it doesn't always have to be
Static shouts from one anxiety
To another.

Teach me to set my palm on my chest,
That the warmth that fills my body
Can be enough.

Teach me that it's okay to whisper,
That I shouldn't have to scream
To be noticed,
To be loved.

There are moments you wait for
Where life hands you these seconds, which turn into incredibly wonderful every nerve exposed minutes. Creating lifetimes of moments.
The fireworks in your chest kinds of moments.
Standing under cathedral paintings in Rome and wondering how someone human made something so unearthly and raw kind of moments.
We feel.
We create.
We inspire love.
So, why can't I tell you that you make me feel as though I'm lying under the Tuscan sun with sand in every fingertip? I smile like the Mona Lisa every time your hand touches mine.
I feel.
I create.
I love.
Do you?