I love not gently,
subtle my heart is not.
but not a storm.
[it does not pass]
Spring, declining to wither,
as winter settles in our bones.
Vintage in nature,
but too fragile to be traded
between hearts & possibility.
I've been thinking,
about the rising up, call to arms, out of the ashes way,
in which living is supposed to go.
on which we are meant to leave our hearts and say we won the war.
Strength is always seen in the conquering, the moving on, the getting over.
We've given no regard for the staying, the breathing, the choosing.
Things that are not accompanied by charismatic victory.
I would sever Every. Last. Inch.
of the 100,000 miles worth of veins
coursing through my body.
If I dared to ask the same,
you wouldn't even pick up the knife.
I've been spending time,
in the space between what you say and how you feel.
Dusting for prints left behind by thoughts you'd never share.
Chasing down secrets in hopes of getting a confession.
From your reckless heart.
This body and I, we don't get along.
I look back at old pictures, and remember how I felt.
Body turned, chin down, stomach in.
Hoping, in those brief moments between the flash and capture,
that I would be frozen in time as a smaller version of myself.