If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Your days will be musical
The nights will have their own song
Not anymore will you look at things as regular-
The trees will seem to give you more than just shade,
The sunlight will trickle down on your skin
Bouncing off the window pane
The wind will do a waltz through your hair
Your eyes will carry the universe in them
All the things will not be the same again.

If you ever fall in love with a writer
I don’t promise that it will be easy
For, writers can be insane sometimes
What good is love if you don’t jump off sanity?
They are forgettful. Terribly so.
They will not remember anniversaries
Or to buy tickets for your favourite show
But, they will never forget how you smell after a bath,
The colour of your eyes,
Thoughts of you will never escape their mind.

Writers can be clumsy,
They will trip over their own shabby scattered notes,
Spill the ink onto a fresh piece of poem
But, the way their fingers will trace stories on your bare skin,
And how they will carefully settle
The baby hair on your forehead before kissing,
Will seem to you as their finest work.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
They will never tell you how much
They love you back until,
Your absence makes it hard for them to breathe,
Makes you more of necessity.
They will, then, hold your hand,
Close their eyes
And cry like they have already lost you;
The tears will spread over their face
Like delicate words on paper,
With each one rolling down their cheek
Their clutch of you will grow tighter.
It is when they open their eyes,
Look at you as a miracle in disguise,
That each part of their soul will sing
To you their love
And the million “I love yous” you wrote to them
Will not be enough.

If you ever fall in love with a writer,
Kiss them in the stormy rain,
Drive them to a distant place
They have never been to,
And watch carefully their expressions change,
Build them sand castles
And let the tides wash it away,
Don’t buy them flowers
On Valentine’s day.

For every blown out candle,
every Mazel Tov,
every turn of the tassel,
you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages.
It’s never a notebook we need.
If we have a story to tell,
an idea carbonating past the brim of us,
we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin.
In the absence of pens,
we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number
of a parting stranger
until we become the craziest one on the subway.

If you really love a writer,
find a gravestone of someone who shares their name and take them to it.
When her door is plastered with an eviction notice, do not offer your home.
Say I Love You, then call her the wrong name.
If you really love a writer,
bury them in all your awful and watch as they scrawl their way out.

If you sincerely love a writer,
They will carry you inside them
Till you are all they remain,
Hold you like the glint in their eyes
If a writer falls in love with you,
You can never die.

I fell in love with you on molly
I fell in lust with you on ****
Felt bigger than myself
Wanted you and no one else
on LSD
But heartbreak came with sassafras
You looked at me with eyes of glass
Because the high can never really last
And now my dreams live in the past

The rain filled my drink for days
As I lay on the bridge
staring slowly at the stars

The space between my memories
covered my brain, leaving little room
for love, passion, or beauty

I knew my feet could still stand,
that my hands could still grasp

But I was small, far away
trying to fight the depths
of my desires.

I thought of better times
I wanted happiness

Alas

No use sitting and hoping,
thinking these idle thoughts
I suppose it's for the best
that I finally get a move on

You are not the scars on your body, and you are not the mistakes you have made, and you are not the people who have hurt you

You are the sun & the stars and music late at night and bare feet on fresh grass. You are all the things that keep you alive when it's 1am and your insides are screaming.

I failed my mother – she failed me first.
All through childhood I held your hand as you wept –
You sighed and cried and denied a mothers love.

I was twelve when I sliced my first cut –
I weaved artistic patters all over my arm,
Each hack felt like a distorted piece of sympathy.

You have been cured for many years –
The disease was just passed, unquestioned to me.
You have never asked, or even glanced twice.

Last night I saw you crying –
Your friends’ daughter had cut – it was a tragic devastation.
Everyone was making plans, dinners, lunches, supportive hugs.
You went to help – to empathise like her mother never could.

I have never punished myself for attention,
It’s a sad and sick release from my insanity – for me.
You birthed me and gave me life, fed and clothed my pathetic body.

I know there is so much that I can never repay –
I know I failed to make you happy when I was young –
But why do you give this girl a mother’s love??
When all I have are forced hugs -