This is the way skin stretches over bones.
Almost like saran wrap,
almost like a corset,
preserving the inside,
keeping everything tucked in tight,
all that blood and all those cells,
all that ambition and emotion,
desire, and devotion;
The kind of stuff we’re made of,
The kind of stuff that makes us human.

This the way we bleed.
Cut ourselves open and come clean;
veins spill secrets and regrets,
broken promises and mistakes
dormant dreams and all the chances we didn’t take,
in only a soft whisper and only at night,
with a body beside us, that won’t run in fright.
The kind of blood that trickles hesitantly then pours out unapologetically,
The kind of blood that makes us human.

This is the way we swallow,
the same love over and over again.
Our bellies tired of digesting the same love,
the same spoiled milk kind of love.
past the expiration date kind of love,
you’ll just in up with a stomachache kind of love.
We keep drinking only because there is nothing else that makes us feel this full.
Because everything else doesn’t compare to the way the sour taste sits on your tongue like it’s meant to be there,
like it’s the only spoiled milk you ever want to drink;
like the stars aligned just for this moment,
just for this one sip.
Because it’s the only love we’ve ever known.
The kind of love that stretches like skin over bones;
the kind of love that resembles the scent of your grandfather’s cologne;
the kind of love that makes no sense, but at least it never makes us feel alone.
The kind of love that makes us raw, tender, human.

The nostalgia you bring swirls and wraps around me,
knitting itself into a sweater to keep me warm.
A sweater that smells like a person I keep
tucked inside the bed sheets of a memory.

Autumn, your winds whisper, “remember when”,
beginning to tell a tale I know all too well;
of sticky sweet summers and spending most days
watching sunsets that remind me that there is an end to
every day,
every summer,
every story.

The type of nostalgia you bring isn’t a longing for the past
but more of a longing for a person I used to know
seasons ago,
for a person whose love never made it
to fallen leaves and naked trees.

The kind of nostalgia you bring makes me
remember memories that never happened.
We used to talk about watching the leaves change color
like we were reminiscing but we were just anticipating
something that could never happen.
Somewhere in August, we ran out of false memories
to enhance our game of make believe.

The nostalgia Autumn brings wraps its arms around me,
sways me from side to side,
sings me a song I have never heard before
but I already know all the lyrics to
and makes me believe we were in love.
I don’t mind pretending just a little bit longer
Just so I can fool myself into the next season.

every time my phone vibrates, I hope your name flashes across my screen.

I know it's irrational to think that you would ever text me, but sometimes hope deceives me.

It's all wishful thinking.

I read somewhere that whatever is meant for you will truly be yours.

Words haunt me now and you continue to stain my skin. When the sun sets and night settles into my bedroom it reminds me of you.

I never told you how I wanted to unwrap your skin,
see what's underneath,
discover why you always feel like home.

Maybe you are nothing more than a lesson I was supposed to learn the first time but kept reteaching myself.

I always thought you would stay every time I left.
That's the thing about patterns, you get used to the rhythm.

I can't remember the last time we spent autumn together.

I can't stop thinking about how you never used to sleep. I hope you are sleeping these days.

We only know the love we teach ourselves.

Spiderwebs of doubt lace between my lips
like the lies that tie themselves into vines,
hang from the bottom of your tongue.

We are both rotten.
I wish we knew this before we decided to ruin each other.

We only know the love we experience.

I coughed dirt from my lungs, called it devotion.
You pried my thighs open with claws, called it ***.

We only know the love others have shown us.

Your chest is not a place where I belong.
You let me sit in a grave for years.
My hands were not a home for your heart.
I let you trust me.

We should have known we would be each other's ghosts.
From that very first touch, my fingers trailing over the icy skin of your knuckles,
your lips brushing against my hollow cheeks,
we should have known we would haunt each other.

we only know the love we have seen.

but can't you see?
We tear each other apart.

We say we love each other,
but the only sound in the room is teeth tearing the skin off bones,
the sound of blood steadily dripping on a hardwood floor,
the shudder and heave of
one last breath.