the kind of person that gives you
straight,
blunt
advice:
great for breakups
or motivation to get off your ***.
they use logic. they say things simply.
it hurts
but the truth is
often what you need to hear.

the kind of person that gives you
understanding,
reassurance,
and love:
great for the sad days,
and for hope that the brighter days are
just around the corner.
they use compassion. they quote books.
it feels nice,
and you might get a good cry.

sometimes, though,
the spiral doesn’t want
logic,
or the blunt truth.
it wants, not understanding,
or reassurance,
because telling it that
“everything is going to be okay.”
makes it burn even worse.

sometimes it needs to
laugh at itself.
not to be told that it is
being ridiculous,
but to realize that
they way its brain works
is, in fact, ridiculous.
how it can look at a rainbow
and turn it into tears,
how it can laugh at
the most horrible joke, but yet
still get sick
at the idea of its friends
being in pain.

it needs to be reminded that
it is complex.
and that, while everything
will eventually feel better,
it might be worse one day,
too.
that itself,
and the metaphors it uses,
are just a small fraction of
the extravagant art
its pain,
its brain,
is able to create.

Never fall in love with a poet.
They will break you apart
like stanzas.
You are a metaphor,
a simile, an oxy-
*****.
Never fall in love with a poet.
They will tear you apart
like a rough draft,
burn you, and then
call it art.

© A. Leigh

I pop a pomegranate seed.
It bleeds,
Delicate fuchsia delight,
Mineral scented, warm, bright,
Full of nectar and promise
(now wasted)

I pop another one,
In a soft cove on my arm-
A slight dip between two veins -
And watch the blushing drop
Edge closer to my elbow. Stop.

A third time,
With the fury of fear
Tiptoeing listlessly in my mind,
Like raindrops on a rooftop.  
It is sweet, and ******,
A waste of time but an act of god
Nonetheless.

I crave the sound and texture of it,
So a fourth time comes around.
By now, the citrus is overpowering
But I keep going,
For the sake of purity,
For the sake of the shock of vibrance
On deathly pale skin.
  
When my arm is covered in juice,
I give up.
There's no sense in envying the wasted.

Scarlet sticks.