You said
I wasn't worth the world,
wasn't worth anything
at all,
my face
still has a red mark
from where you've
hit me, my
body still has bruises
from where
you grabbed me
and didn't let go, as
if you were holding
on to the ghost
of someone
you once loved,
and you wanted to
make sure they didn't
disappear again.
Afterward, you
told me I was beautiful
and then took
it back,
said you didn't mean
to hurt me
but I
still am not
worth anything
at all.

You are making earthquakes
with your hands, destroying
mountains, building cities
from my spine and crushing
them with hurricanes that
fall from your mouth.
Your body is the tornado
whirling through my door
at 3am on a Thursday morning.

You are nothing but
silent death, your blood
drenched upon broken
flowers, your eyes blacker
than the night and your
arms a picture of a war.

These notes were once
all addressed to you because
I always tried to
begin a sentence with something other than your name,
but my hands
only know how to write
about you.

You painted
a sunset in the back of my
throat, so that every time
we kissed, you could taste
something beautiful that
wasn't me.

you gave me
a bullet and a gun
in the form of
a love letter

The sun wakes after I have walked two hours just to trace the outline of your body.
My arms have purple fingerprints from all the times you grabbed me when I walked into your ghost.
A thousand suns used to fall from the tips of my fingers into your outstretched hands.
You would kiss me just to catch the cigarette smoke unfurling out of my mouth.
We used to play last card beneath a candle light and sitting in forts.
The colours of a hundred sun sets fell from your mouth when you looked at me.
Rainbows had formed in the back of your throat where you thought no one could find them, but I tasted them when your lips met mine.
My eyes have dark rings under them from all the sleepless nights you caused me.
You carved a hole in my chest and never replaced it.
You held me so tight all of my bones broke and every crack had your name inside.

The sun woke this morning and I wasn't tracing the outlines of your body.
I wasn't speaking volumes because your lips weren't touching mine, and that's the only time I feel safe enough to write a novel.
The sun rose and I was waist deep in the water, trying not to think about your face.
But the water made waves that carried your name right to me.