I don't feel special,
I'm not unique.
I want to cry
but I can't even speak.
My hands reach out,
but they cannot hold
a single thing
but the bitter cold.
Everything's frozen,
I feel lost.
Even my tears
have turned to frost.
When I cut my waist
it bleeds black.
I'm so deeply gone
there's no way back.
This is goodbye

We leave parts of us in the words we write
For our present selves to live and believe in
For our future selves to wonder
For our past selves to be remembered

-- Isn't that beautiful?

Writing lines like conversations
That live on as long as they're read
Never washed away from the imprints of history
The greatest things left unsaid

Reading minds from long ago
A place no one else will know
But see, in writing you get to be
Yesterday, today, tomorrow and forever

-- A legacy.

Why isn’t sadness beautiful to you?
Why is it only pretty faces and skinny waists?
Why isn’t longing beautiful to you?
Why do you grind people down until they turn into paste?

Why isn’t anger beautiful to you?
Why don’t you love the passion burning in their eyes?
Will you ever get to see the love that they’re too scared to pursue?
Why do you only love what comes with a shiny prize?

It’s only pretty little flowers that you don’t know the meaning of,
It’s only stolen landscapes that you don’t know,
Or that handsome boy in the movie you just saw a screening of.
You just tie up all the “negatives” in a plastic bow.

Staying ignorant, just like usual.
Why can’t I be beautiful?

To peel back your skin,
To sink my teeth deeply within,
Nothing between us,
Just flesh juice and core,
Treat me to what’s yours.

I know where this path leads.

Calloused hand, soft hip
Bitten lip, bitten ear lobe
Short of breath wanting

Break my bones;
cut my throat.
Pull me open,
learn the ropes.

Breath me in;
taste the fear.
Shank my skin;
stand and cheer.

Kick my head;
let me bleed.
Unbolt my veins;
enjoy the read.

Gouge my eyes;
punch my face.
Wrap me up
in your embrace.

what does it feel like to be held
not by another body
not by a set of limbs, a chest, a chin
but
by another soul

what does it feel like
to see truth in another pair of eyes
instead of hidden intentions
instead of absence

what does it feel like
to hear a familiar heartbeat
resounding next to your own
reaching through skin
through bone
two rhythms
indistinguishable

what does it feel like
to write poems about
a love that exists