I've tasted blood            I've tasted milk
of battles past                 and wondered why
of battle present             I wasn't  tasting blood
of battles future              all this time

Dark towering forms
With strength of millennia
Weak against our love

Every dot takes a space
millions of dots can make
a straight line
or can create an arbitrary path

Where we are traveling
that can make life simple
or can draw a circle
that turns you again
to your home

Or an uneven line
that creates a sway
where the river moves   
but can't say that
there was no space
before the big bang

Each word has a pour
that impact could be
low or loud  
but some words can make
a metaphor
a poem

Can catch happiness
or sadness
can art an imagery
of nature
life

Or a thought
that can make an illusion
or a fusion between
the love and the hope
that we perches into our soul

Every bits of sound holds an emotion
thousands of bits make a rhythm
that can build a song
whether it's a song of joy

Or sad
or a true loop
that never terminate
thee love of  

Or a rebel tune
that makes a struggle
for the independence
which can make an eternal
freedom song!

Every thing you left behind is still here
Collecting parts of individually wrapped humans
I refuse to rearrange the furniture
It helps convince me you're still coming back
That you have forgotten how to love
Taking a hiatus to expunge selfish
There is a spot reserved here for you
I am the only one that can still see it

I sit on your brown and ***** couch with my legs
folded underneath my ever-growing body.
Your house makes me want to *****, but I’m too afraid
to ***** inside of your house. You never *****: you’re too
tall and lanky, your spine too well-dressed. You never bleed, either.

I always do; always when I’m with you
there is blood on my big toe, blood soaking up
the skin that sighs in between my large legs.
Do not touch my legs, or my stomach. I used to know
when to stop with you, how to stop with you.

I stopped feeling safe with you this summer.
We both had chapped lips. The states we visited
were as dry as your dusty and battered car. We spent
this summer sleeping together atop unfamiliar grounds.

Not once did we have *** in your house, but still,
now that I’m here, my stomach is in pain as though we did.

I still want to *****. My mouth still tastes like your car, like exhaust.

Somewhere in the background you are calling me beautiful,
somewhere my eyes are closing, then everything is yelling
the way a father does. I am trying to remember being three years old again,
everything pink dresses against grey houses. How much would you
take care of me if I told you I was sick? What would you do
with my hair? I have dreams of you in which your body
looks like that of a still born’s, your face like cancer of the bone.