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Today you said you'd always love me.
And you didn't ask for my naked *******,
or my submissive body beneath silk sheets.
You didn't even ask for my loyalty.

It's hard to believe the tragedies that
we've brought to life before this moment.

I've always wanted a relationship to be dangerous.  
Call it my penchant for self-harm, or my need to feel victimized,
but I crave love a that could burn down towns, destroy lives.
Passion isn't safe, it takes causalities.

People spend so much time balancing,
looking at their feet and trying not to fall.
We are brought up to believe that pain
should be avoided at all costs,
but what if your happiness lies
just beyond the thorn bush?

I won't claim to be fearless.  
It seems that I am constantly caught
between apprehension and regret.
My indecision is a wall
that very few would dare to scale,
but your words are building me a harness.

The other side is surely filled with storms.
Treacherous animals that would seek to tear me limb from limb.
There may be *** holes and misleading signs,
long stretches of greedy quick sand.

But, then again,
no one remembers journeys
that were effortless.
Not really feeling the title. Suggestions? And as always I'd love your thoughts :)
It's like when you have the stomach flu,
and the first thing you toss up is your favorite,
homemade, blueberry muffins. How after that,
even though you've eaten them for 19 years,
just the thought of violet-speckled, baked goods
makes you want to hunch over the nearest toilet.

I don't remember when I stopped being able
to stomach irony.

All I know is I spend every morning gargling
minty antiseptics, trying to rid my mouth from
the aftertaste of dreams, but still its ghost lingers
in the back of my throat. I try to wash it down with the
taste of his ****, and the smell of his cologne. Thinking,
I guess, that one day I'll be able to love him like he deserves.

As opposed to wondering what happened between us.

Your catchphrase was," There's nothing to say."
It wasn't until now that I understood.  I wanted so
badly to find the right words. Wanted so bad to mend
what was  irreparably broken.  But you knew that every
time you opened your mouth, you were in danger
of coughing out your heart. Of spewing out a ******
mess of feelings that I didn't yet understand.

Now, as you come to me with olive branches, all I can
do is choke on my own aorta. So understand when I sound
like your broken record, that I'm just trying to hold it together.
I'd love to know what you think!
Especially about the last sentence of the last stanza.
I can't seem to get out of this dry spell. What do you all do when you have writer's block??
I feel lost. The strings holding me here suddenly seem to have slipped through my fingers, and I am left looking up at the sky, a child who's lost their first balloon.

And like the balloon I am floating.
Waiting for my inevitable explosion into the atmosphere. Everything that ascends must return to the ground. If only my mood swings weren't subject to the laws of physics.
A lot of late nights recently.
Some days I feel as if I should try harder to impersonate rivers. Flow along my set path,
over the bumps and rocks and irritating tree roots, and let the current take me.

Other days I want to set my own path.
Be ignited by lightening in a forest and chew through anything barring my way.

It's hard to trust fate
when you are always told
to write your own story.
We live as summer lightening.

Heated, dangerous, and
undeniably mesmerizing.

My eyes are turned upward,
waiting for rain that may never come.

My lips remain parted,
breathing in your dry indifference.
I may write more on this, I don't know yet.

I hate the title. Anyone have something more creative?
I tell you that I just want
to be wanted.
Needed the way a lock
needs the safe feel of
it's key's cool skin,
the gentle memory of it's
perfect cuts and curves.
If only we could open up
our lovers the way
we open our front door.

Maybe it was how you wore pain.
The way your tears, lazy little rivers on
your perfect face, would wash down in
chaotic lines. Prisoners of emotion
trying desperately to escape being absorbed
back into the flesh prison of your skin.
Skin that used to soothe my fears as
my fingertips put on a ballet across its surface.
Smelling of cool autumn promises, blue sky "I love you"s,
and thoroughly damp memories. Slightly marred
with emotional pock marks and raised
scar tissue that mapped out your life
in a secret language known only to you and the blade.

I'm pretty sure
you'll forever feel like home to me.
As broken as that home may be.
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