Poets say how beautiful it is
that the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shore
no matter how many times it is sent away
How chasing thunderstorms can make you feel so alive
that sometimes you forget you are in the path of a hurricane.
This is how we fall in love
This is how we fall apart
This is the burning flame
This is the burst balloon
This is saying “I love you”
and only hearing a siren song
This is feeling at home
even with your hands around my neck
Maybe I jumped knowing exactly where I’d fall
Maybe I held your heart so hard it exploded
If we are just two people playing with fire
Why am I the only one who gets burnt?
In sixth grade biology class they taught us
that the average human heart is the same size as a fist.
I didn’t know we would all grow up learning to use it like one.
I stood still and watched the sun drip
across a candy-coloured skyline and
melt into a puddle on the pavement.
Clouds hung suspended in the air like
wavering pegs on a washing line
anticipating, frozen, a ghost trapped
between two sides. Propelled into
motion, the blanket of fog descends
and suffocates. Wraps itself around
the earth’s neck and breathes.
Squeezing its victim into submission,
this is the kiss before the bite.
Sometimes I am forced to remember.
In the transient passing of nature: a
wisp of smoke, the crunch of gravel,
the flicker of a firefly. I once thought
I saw a shadow there. In silent screams
the moon pulsates and I find myself catching
honey between the cracks, scooping handfuls into
my mouth for there is fear of forgetting to taste.
I will watch the hourglass until the sand begins to
flow backwards. It never does but, darling, we have
waded in too deep to turn back now. It is only July,
I remind myself. Flowers still have time to bloom;
I am just a negative waiting to develop.
There is fire in my bones and lightning
in your lungs. When we kiss it’s like
a thunderstorm. Two tectonic plates
crash against each other and
somewhere in the world starts
quaking. Seismic waves are quicker
than calling. Continental drift is the
earth’s defence mechanism for
commitment. Static electricity, like
miscommunication, is simply friction
in motion. I am crushing sandstorms
between my teeth, breathing in
hurricanes like oxygen, swallowing
the volcanic ash of survival; to think
we are all made of liquid love and
some will never feel the force of a
tsunami. Sometimes I am stuck
in the eye of a tornado, others I am
spinning in it. Either way, we are a
whirlwind of skin and bone; flesh and
blood; bruises and scars. Laying in
the fresh rubble of our own creative
destruction, I realise, our love is an
oxymoron; a natural disaster; a
phenomenon scientists could only
dream of understanding.
I am an old friend of bruised knees and bathroom floors,
exhaling until the chest is empty and body no longer breathing;
only absence lives here now. Cold stone tiles,
so we meet again: spilling secrets into each other’s mouths
until we see the light of dawn, we whisper
with a hope of being heard, yet fear of being listened to.
For weeks I have been swallowing metaphors like honey,
gulping down apologies for breakfast,
biting my tongue until the taste of forgiveness fills me –
for once my throat is not made of molasses.
There is a reason why our hearts began to curl like fists
and we aimed them at ourselves, because after all,
self-love has always been the most important thing.
Last week I was taught that
no matter how complex an expression may seem
if you multiply it by its conjugate pair
you will always end up with a non-negative real solution.
That is a metaphor for how we have learned to love.
I used to like mathematics, as strange as it may sound,
because memorising the value of pi was
somehow easier than forgetting the notion of you
and I thought maybe comprehending the mechanics of the universe
would lead me one step closer to cracking the combination.
In a world that spins at the rate of 27,900m per minute, a constant can prove tricky to find.
Hence, there is solace to be felt in knowing that even when it is all said and done –
when the final bullet has slipped from our tongues and we are left trembling
upon nothing but the rubble of our own destruction,
two plus three will still be equal to five.
In an attempt to clarify a theory to the class, my teacher analogised
that mathematics is like one big giant jigsaw puzzle:
everything always fits together perfectly in the end
Since then I have learned it is the method without the madness,
the passion for the predictable; it is everything - that love is not.
Not even the greatest mathematician in the world
has been able to measure how much a heart can hold.
There is no algorithm for how to make you come back;
I cannot draw a line graph on the speed at which love left
and even if I could, our gradients would never be the same.
I may have both halves of the bed,
but there is never enough space to fill it with.
If a task takes four hours for ten people to complete
and the same job takes five people twice that time,
how long will it take for a human to feel whole again?
Sometimes I think we are nothing more
than two parallel lines that accidentally crossed paths.
To be, or not to be?
That has always been the question,
but I've never been too sure of the answer.
I'm not obsessed with Shakespeare, just death.
Or rather death is obsessed with me -- I feel it.
Surging through every synapse under my skin,
buried deep within each crater of my soul:
I no longer know what home feels like.
Death haunts me.
Like the shadow I've never
quite been able to catch,
but have always heard knocking.
One day, that door will be opened--
darkness will consume me,
if I could only find the light switch.
When you don't like a song,
you can simply stop listening to it;
this record has been stuck on repeat for so long
maybe I'll finally learn
what forgiveness sounds like.
But I'm scared.
Of what will happen
when the music stops playing.
i used to think you were the first thornless rose to ever exist
until i accidentally pricked myself on you
and haven’t stopped bleeding since.
that was the day i learned that
sometimes it’s the beautiful things in life
that can hurt you the most.