mum asks
why you show your poems to strangers
but not to me?

mum doesn't know
poetry is light
but it can also be darkness
sometimes it is mostly darkness
and poetry is history
and experiences
and things you want to happen
and things you don't want to see

poetry isn't always
chocolate-filled with a coat of sugar
it isn't always pretty metaphors
and nice descriptions of nice feelings

mum doesn't know
my poems can turn a little darker
twisted just like my mind

and she doesn't know
the way I love
or the way I hate
and she would surely ask
and she would surely know who and why and what
and strangers don't know
who the hell I am talking about
and they don't care
as long as they read a good piece

mum asks

I don't reply.

He kissed me so deeply I forgot whose air I was breathing

and sometimes, i think about how i'm not very good at loving without the sting.

because my love is a tiger, a thornbush. my love is ****** teeth in the dark and hungry marks all across your skin, lovebites.

my love makes you ache and swallows you, searches for the most vulnerable, broken parts and occupies them.

so please understand, that i do want you to happy. and i really don't want to see you hurt. (but in the very same breath that i tell you that i hold your joy above all else, my poison mouth drips with possession, with making you mine.)

The ground beneath my feet is shaking
The blood is running through my veins
The coldness has taken over my body
I'm sorry, my friend
For that I have been leaving everybody.

The birds sing
After the darkness has appear
Even the sun loves it
When I disappear.

He stops talking
And letting out
A sigh of relief.
Even my loved ones is happy
When I leave him.

Now the sun shines warmly
And the birds sing happily
And the man is smiling softly
Why should I bother
To breathe
Hardly?
Why should I live
When everyone is happy?

I'm sorry, my friend
For that I
Need to be happy,
Too.

every good boy leaves because in the end, i
am not what they wanted at all.

they wanted white-picket-fence springtime girls, who wear dresses and smile like innocence and blush when you hold their hand in public, shy.

not me. not rose-thorn walls and ****** teeth. not a girl who cusses and fights and claws at anything that lashes out at her. not a girl who won't let them fight her battles and stands on her own, lacing her fingers with yours because you are hers and she will fight tooth-and-nail for you, and she wants everyone to see that.

they want someone they can settle down with and have a nice, cute house and a pretty cherry tree and pretty little kids and have homemade breakfasts and listen to the birds sing in the morning.

they do not want a girl who sleeps till noon and drags them off on wild adventures and wants to go everywhere. who hates the shrill chirping of birds and uses black curtains to hide from the sunlight daring to slide through her windows. Who can't cook to save her life and holds on far too tight.

no, i am not what you wanted. but i can't be anyone else.

I want to feel your lips pressed against mine
as you moan my name
while I surrender a smirk
after you fall to my neck
and form rose petals above my shoulders,

I want to hear you speak
when it’s late and no one’s awake
when it’s you and me
beneath the trees and the towers
as we look from below
captivated by the canvas above us,

I wish to stay by your side
when you tell me you must leave
for your job or your mother
and I wish to linger as well
when you plead for my company
as I ignore my family.

If it weren’t against tradition
I would plant flowers on you
every time I’d think of your lips
and if it weren’t for our religion
I would sleep beside you
in the most innocent of the phrase
and literal in the sense
to stay by your anatomy
as our souls fly to the sky,

I am reluctant to enunciate these words to you
in worry that you’ll see me
the same no longer
because I hide behind a veil
through my speech and my stance,
the swaying and rustling skirt
when I find myself dancing
steps away from you
as we stroll by the beach,

Now I know this may not concern me
but if I were to speak
and unzip my censored language,
I would tell you
that I crave you
and your mind and your body and your soul
and I want you, all
with your scars and your moles
and the crooked smile
which forms above your chin
as you paint your lips
against mine.