I will burn
Like
A Phoenix.
Not
Smolder
Like coals.

The thing about writers is that they’ll win you over with words
It’s enthralling when somebody writes about how your lips are the collision of soft pastels coming together
And how your hair is a waterfall cascading down a masterpiece
Or how your freckles are as beautiful as constellations in the sky
Or how your eyes demand truth in the slivers of honey
caught in a whirlwind of the ocean in your eyes
Isn’t it intriguing the way a writer captures you in words?
Everybody wishes to be scribbled into journals and etched into the back of somebodies mind
After all “If a writer falls in love with you, you’ll never die”
But nobody likes being in the forced silence a writer presses upon a room
Nobody likes waking up at 3am wondering why their lover is scribbling into a journal with furrowed brows
Most of all nobody wants to be loved by somebody whose pen can speak more clearly than their own lips
Being loved by a writer is endearing, yes…
But nobody actually wants to live forever in some tattered old notebook that just collects dust as years go by
Everyone wants a lover who shows as much passion through actions
As they show in their words-
Most writers can’t offer that,
and I’m afraid that’s why everyone and no one would like to be loved by a writer

It's not as much butterflies in my stomach anymore.
They've migrated to my throat,
Choking me off.
I want to say something beautiful
Paint a picture of eloquence that would take your breath away,
But apparently I'm the one lacking air.
What used to fill my whole being with a flush anticipation
Has caused a fickle for my respiration.
Under the cluster of wings in my throat
I feel each movement-
The hum of so called life
(But will I still be living when I lack air?).
These butterflies have lone gone from wonderful and turned
Disastrous.
It makes me wonder how something so beautifully fragile could turn so
Deadly.