When he speaks,
sometimes I hold my breath
like I hold his hands.

Drowning above water,
caught in the riptide of
Lust and Language,
seems like such a foreign concept.

At least it was before I met him.

I can feel my heart
as it palpitates
and the arteries
that throb just
below my skull...

They silently beg me to
let go of what his words
do - the pressure they place
on my lungs.

Winded like prey
who has just flown
from the ravenous predator.

I feel torn apart
more often than saved.

And right now, I ******* hate metaphors.

Who knew it was possible
to anticipate
that the way you may die
would actually be
the only way you ever lived?

Always caught up in
someone else's words.