I did something
I should have done
a long
long
time ago.

no explanations
no protests
no complaints

today, I begin--
writing poems
not for you
but for me.

Babe called me Film Noir
Said my head was darker than onyx, ashes and ebony,
And I was soaking in a solace that was felt with my presence,
Like hot candle wax dripped down the spine.

Film Noir with more than fifty shades of grey,
And messages I liked to leave in his pants pocket
"God is Dead" to deepen his uncertainty of faith.
Merlot on my tongue like a mouthful of blood while I watch him unravel.

Babe called me Film Noir
Said I always felt like home,
Like home was hell and made you anxious and suicidal,
Like a door with nothing behind it.

Film Noir that was art and lovely and terrifying.
And appreciated for it's talent of deepening wounds that were thought to be already healed.
Then kissed them apologetically, stitching them closed,
But so insincere.

Maybe now he's my Film Noir,
So tragically ending our love.
Like broken china on the floor of the parlor,
So precious to look at, but unusable and a waste.
Till the day he took his life
Babe called me Film Noir.

(n.)*: that body of water in your chest, violent waves slamming against a weathered ribcage, threatening to drown you from the inside

(n.)*: the act of inevitably setting flame to every new city you build, because starting over is easier than maintaining

We are empty caskets. Broken Surgery tools. A banned book in a school library. We are backpacks with busted straps attempting to hold other people's problems while lacking support. Teaching our arms to only hold onto things we can complain about.

We become a teenagers forgotten toy. Under a bed and covered in dust. Our hands are winter gloves covered in holes. Hearts bleeding to find a home. Our bodies play one hit wonders with low batteries in a empty prison cell. We are prisoners of our own thoughts.

Scribbling love poems into our rib cages in hope that someone will open us up, and understand the language these lips can't speak. That the rose bouquet of bones in your body will let go of it's thorns so you know pain isn't always your fault.

Loneliness exists in lost socks behind the dryer. Let it stay there. Find the symmetry in your stem and bloom out of the depression of ruined soil. You are a buried treasure. Let them find you where you are. Snuggled up in your excellence.

Give me your hands dear
and ill show you a new world
a world of color