I remember sitting with my legs crossed
at an empty parking lot with you.
Burning our lungs,
sharing our deepest secrets at 3am
while I rest my head
on your shoulder that cold summer night.
I sang along our favorite songs
and you wished that time stopped
so we could still be together.

But alas,

You are still too damaged.
You think too much.
You are too practical.
You are not yet ready for anything.

And I’m left confused
and angry
and frustrated
and a little bit hurt, I guess.

So here we are again,
so here we go again.

Who would have thought
that we would actually
burn even faster
than our cigarettes?

                                                    ­                        
 — apbq

You're willing to die for a country
That will exclude you from being able to serve.
You're willing to **** for a country
That still thinks a Bible is a valid argument.
You're willing to contribute to a conflict
That isn't as big a threat to your life
As the people you've vowed to protect the liberty of.
And you do it again and again
With a fraction of the respect patriots demand veterans are entitled to.
Because you've decided to put the needs of the complacent
Above your own human rights.
And you'll get no thanks from them,
Because they can't sleep easily at night
Unless they can rip off your clothing and see what's in your pants.
And if it doesn't add up to their image?
You can sacrifice your life for theirs and they'll still call you a freak.

If you were to peel back
The layers of my skin
For a peek of what lies beneath,
You would find a tangle of wild roots,
Dense, and untamed, and telling
The story of my home.

Knotting and merging, and
Twisting and looping,
An intricate lace spirals around
My bones, whispering tales from my childhood
And sprouting little flower buds that blossom across my skin,
Which you would see as the jagged lines of white stretch marks,
And the dull pink and caramel spots of scars if you observed my skin intently.

If you came close enough, and nuzzled your face against my neck,
You would be able hear the clamour of
My ancestry within the riotous halo of curls at my crown.
They bloom in tight ringlets from the roots atop my head,
And bellow battle songs
Of toothless combs and brushes.

If I were to hold your hand for long enough,
Maybe the roots that emerge from my fingertips would entwine intimately with those sprouting from yours.
If you were to hold me against your chest long enough,
Perhaps the lacy roots from my ribcage would entangle with those spiralling around yours,
So you'd be able to hear the murmurs of my memories,
And I, every old story told with every beat of your heart.

Hold me close,
And maybe you will find a corner within my untamed roots within which to stay.
Hold me close,
And maybe I'll find another home within your arms.