It hurts hiding inside myself,
    I won't do it any longer...  

I need to be free
      To show the true me
          
   And finally escape
          This life filed with
     **Misery

"goodnight sleep tight"
is a euphemism
for "goodnight, go to sleep without worries and without pain. forget your tears as you drift from cloud to cloud within your elegant state of mind. forget your troubled times and hug your cloud for soft comfort"

this is a poem about how you sleep,
how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary.
how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you.
did you know that you turned away from me
every time i tried to face you?
did you do it on purpose?
maybe you were afraid i would be able to see
you were dreaming of her,
that i would read it on your face.
lines by your mouth like obituary,
like roadmap, her bedroom,
the destination, mine, a pitstop.
loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself
and sitting in the front row. no.
loving you was like watching you pick out a casket
and call it practice. ****.
i know how sensitive you are about death.
i know it still hurts.
i know how everything hurts.
i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts.
i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me.
like if i can somehow dig deep enough,
wound you into remembering me.
i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket
for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.  
i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been.
but this isn't about me.
this is about the way you sleep
like you're waiting for someone to close the lid,
cover you in dirt, and read a psalm.
this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together,
and the way my voice gives out
when i read the things you write for anyone other than me.
lover, friend, stranger,
i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts.
i never meant to become one.
i am so ******* selfish.
but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps.
and you used to think my two left feet were charming.
i am out of time in more ways than one.
i keep stepping on your toes.
i can't seem to stop tripping you up,
hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was.

- m.f.

This is not a love letter, but I have to get something off my chest since it seems you have decided to make a home out of me.

You live in my heart and my head, and hopefully one day in my hands.

You have taken down the boards I had blocking the sun, and you have dusted off the blinds. I think you were just trying to prove to me that you can make light touch even the darkest corners of me.

You have painted over my stained walls from past lovers. I hope you cover every inch of me with orange, I want to be your favorite color.

You have fixed my broken pipes and all the shattered lights and I am breathing again. You have fixed every broken floorboard and I promise I will not let you fall through.

You have patched up my roof and weather-proofed me, and I swear I will keep you safe from any storm that comes your way.

You have dug up the dead flowers in my garden. You have trimmed my dead leaves, but please remember to water me.

You have created a home out of me and I hope you never move away. I promise the neighbors are nice and the neighborhood is safe.

If you ever plan to leave please just burn me down, I don't need any owner other than you.

There is so much to be said about the human body but I would like to focus on one specific part for a moment.

Hands

There is something so magnificent yet terrifying about these rather small body parts, in comparison to the rest of you. Hands are capable of fixing and breaking and shaking and crushing and holding and letting go.
(Please do not let go of me.)
There are little creases that tell stories and lead to greater things, like the rest of you.
Hands, like the rest of the human body, come in all shapes and sizes and tones and textures. They can be rough or they can be soft, every pair has the same capability as the next.
Hands are the root of Touch. Hands are the root of Feeling.

I think about hands a lot; your fingers dance around in my head.
There are stories embedded in your palms and I will listen intently to every word they whisper or scream.
There are little fires on your fingertips and I cannot wait for you to set me on fire.