I want glyphs inked into my skin
A needle to caress and stab
Crying stains as an apology for the pain
Leaving behind a mark
But not a scar
Never a scar
A reminder, a promise, proclamation
All the sigils that ever were
Etched into our coverings
Leeching into bone
Changing and reminding
I want something permanent
Even if I change

She is a willow tree, slight and swaying
Her voice comforting like the wind
Cool like the spring at dawn
But crisper,
Crystal that is not fogged up or weigh down
By the muggy droplets in the air.
Cool and blissful and serene.
She laughs and says nonsense
That you absolutely agree with

Wrath is something to fear for all parties involved
Really, wrath is a separate entity that is unaffiliated
With the situation entirely
It drops by when clever words drip and splatter
And whimsically decides that there is far too much violence
For the air to be so blue
And whispers encouragement lightheartedly
That red is a much better color for this aesthetic anyway

I feel a vague sense of *****
In my near future, which is funny
Because I could have sworn I was fine
With out having to lie lie lie
Just a second ago

A little weakness I can stand
A small tear
A soft cry
A reaching hand to steady shaky knees and tired feet
I can be a rock
But you must know
Sorrow like the sea
Will weather me away
And I will not let myself be broken
Not even for you

What would blood taste like to new born undead?

Like full plump cherries
Their stone hearts torn out
Their carcasses left shredded down the middle
Obscene and tempting to any eye that notices
Rotting on their own sweet tears
Staining and branding the world
Even after they are devoured

Like rich tingling honey
Stolen from a colony just before winter
Condemning them to starve without a care
While closing their eyes and scraping
One last flavor off the back of their teeth
Do the blood-starved spare a thought?
As to whether workers of futility truly know despair?

Like chocolate.
Freely given from a lover to another
Dulcet and sinful as bringing lips together
Like promises whispered back and forth
That lost their meaning, eroded by life
And were made to completely disappear by their demise
“Until death do we part?”
They scoff.

When could anything ever last that long?

I like to climb trees when it rains
There’s an old tree in my yard
With fungus sporadically coagulating on
The piney smooth bark
And when I feel a storm coming
I strip off my shoes, when it is hot or cold
And I climb up to the very top
Wind shakes the branches that my feet dangle over
In my mind, I plummet over the edge
Like a baby bird or piece of fallen divinity
But sitting in a tree while I lose sensation of my skin
With my lips blue
And hair whipped by gusts and gales
Seeing only the lightning in ****** wars
With rapidly healing wounds of instantaneous radiance
And the growlcrashscreamROAR of cracks in air
Is the closest I will ever get to flying
--or falling

You asked for spring and I gave it to you
I grew leaves bright in my hair
And paled my skin to soft morning sky blue
And lavished the world with words of a new leaf
With earth under my nails and honeydew sprouting from my throat
You said “I love you, don’t ever change”
But seasons come and go
And I grew too hot for you
I rose up like redwood and reached deeper into parched soil
My skin browned and sweat dripped down my back
Only to be coated with dust
I spat forest fires and blazed brighter than what you dared to look at
And I was too great for you
I grew too much
I was no longer a sprout of sweet baby’s breath
Shy and fairy-tale whimsy
I am now capricious like the drought and following flood and the
rolling thunder that bombards the earth,
that refuses to be silenced, roaring, flashing passion that leaves scars

I am the summer, and you say “You’ve changed”
I am the summer, and I say “I have.”

The decision is never really a choice
The low numbness and lack of feeling is fine
It can be contained and dealt with (Hidden)
Feeling is what triggers it
The sudden need to gasp, the jump in your heart
That believes it is hunted, haunted by the future past present
The hand in your gut, poking and prodding your intestines
Subtly and gently pulling your stomach

Feeling is what is unbearable
I have nothing to hit
No wounds to heal
Nothing to show for my inner turmoil
Except for the marks that I make
On the crook of my arm
That I hide only until they close
Because they never heal