paradise is the way
your eyelashes close together
like butterfly wings
as you whisper my name
through pillow lips,
your hand submerged in
my
mane.

In the honeyed season we cry for the missed lips,
Those slow strolls along the coast of nostalgic seas.
For the ones taken and for the ones lost
Those who vanished through doors without keys.

In the hopes of what we will find in the morning
We are dismayed opening our eyes to grey.
The months gained and the days lost;
We our dreams of sunlight fade away.

In the hearts of the victim and hunter
Both bury pain and anger beneath sorrow.
Though one is running and one is chasing
Both hunger for the honeyed lips of tomorrow.

I'm sorry you had to steal
what was already freely given.
I hope your heart never burns
like mine did the day I wrote that.
I give to you freely
what you honestly deserve,
that is a second chance,
and a word of advice.
Give from yourself,
no gift can ever be poorly graded.

Everyone who says words don’t hurt

should spend a night trying to sleep despite the itching rash on the back of their neck

that formed because they hated themselves so much their body had an allergic reaction

like their skin was a suit that didn’t fit right over the bumps and scars and welts and bruises of hundreds of terrible words

singed and beaten and cut into their skin out of the mouth of someone who was supposed to love them unconditionally

don't ever let them tell you monsters aren’t real

monsters are real but they aren’t dragons or demons

they walk around in the skin of your father and spew fiery hatred from their cavernous mouths without ever laying on hand you because oh no

that would be too easy

a bruise will fade in time but the scars on your mind from every awful word he ever pointed at you tears at you worse than a bullet from a gun

it’s shrapnel of the soul, ripping you apart from the inside every time you move or think or breathe or speak

sometimes i wish that he’d hit when i was 13 instead of calling me stupid and fat and ugly

because one fist to face and he’d be out on his *** where he belonged

instead he just made it so poetry is a from of physical therapy

where you cut yourself open and bleed words from your soul

like a desperate snake bike victim draining poison and blood from their veins

and at night you lie in bed and listen to the quiet beating of your fragile swollen heart

still here, still here, still here, still here, still here

you dont know if it's a reminder or a threat anymore

living is too hard but you're too weak to die so you suffer through every day

slowly and without confidence that you can make it through another

and like a person sent to war you think it's over when you get to leave the trenches

but you're wrong

the battle wages on in your head for years

none of your wounds have a chance to scar and heal as they get ripped open over and over again

you spend your life running confused and scared in a haze of blood loss

until finally your legs give out and you can't run anymore

and when someone tries to offer you a hand and pick you up

you're gun shy

it's okay, it's not your fault really

to others the world has been an oyster but to you it's felt like an iron maiden

but your comrade persists and pulls you gently to your feet

and tries to wrap your soul in bandages of pretty words

and bits of wisdom you need but don't want to hear

you try not to let them unravel, you know it would hurt him, he was so careful in not grazing the raw parts of you when he put them on

but sometimes it just happens

so he holds your hand and wraps you up again and lays beside you at night

listening to the quiet beat of your fragile, swollen heart

please stay, please stay, please stay, please stay, please stay

I wish some trace of myself could linger on you
When I'm not around
The way lipstick lingers, pink and soft, on a soda can
Even after it is thrown into the trash

I wish I could leave some mark on you
Indelible but unpainful
Like grafitti on a wall
I was here

When I ran my hands across your skin
I wish it smudged and stained us both
Like ink
Or graphite

When I trace your shape with my eyes
I wish it left tracks
trailing gently over your skin
Like veins, soft and purple

I can feel your hand in mine
But I cannot see the gentle dents of your fingers
Pressing into my palms
Like the void left in your pillow when you rise each morning

I remember the feeling of laying beside you
But I cannot see the lines of your sheets
Pressed into my skin
Trailing like ribbons

You are splinter in my heart that won’t come out

Nagging nagging nagging

Especially on night like tonight

When it is hot and still and half dark

Like the summers we spent wasting time in the square

And everything smelled like rosemary bushes and lemonade

And the street lights made you look electric

Like the day you shocked me

And left me burning in your wake

I imagine you are tired of me writing you poetry
and I understand doing so with such frequency
is bound to diminish its effects,
if it had any to begin with.
But the problem is that I have yet to tire of you
or the rock candy taste of your name on my tongue
rolling and jingling and solid.
And I have yet to tire of the ghosts of your voice,
cotton candy soft and sweet in my ear
as I slip away into sleep each night.
And I have yet to tire of the faint memories of your touch
that leave my skin buzzing like effervescent soda,
cool and refreshing and familiar.
And I have yet to tire of the last lingerings of your scent in my sheets
the sweet cinnamon sweat that clings to me bed
like a bittersweet cloud.
I am sure by now you have tired of my words
but I will give them too you anyway,
because I have yet to tire of you.