This is the way skin stretches over bones.
Almost like saran wrap,
almost like a corset,
preserving the inside,
keeping everything tucked in tight,
all that blood and all those cells,
all that ambition and emotion,
desire, and devotion;
The kind of stuff we’re made of,
The kind of stuff that makes us human.

This the way we bleed.
Cut ourselves open and come clean;
veins spill secrets and regrets,
broken promises and mistakes
dormant dreams and all the chances we didn’t take,
in only a soft whisper and only at night,
with a body beside us, that won’t run in fright.
The kind of blood that trickles hesitantly then pours out unapologetically,
The kind of blood that makes us human.

This is the way we swallow,
the same love over and over again.
Our bellies tired of digesting the same love,
the same spoiled milk kind of love.
past the expiration date kind of love,
you’ll just in up with a stomachache kind of love.
We keep drinking only because there is nothing else that makes us feel this full.
Because everything else doesn’t compare to the way the sour taste sits on your tongue like it’s meant to be there,
like it’s the only spoiled milk you ever want to drink;
like the stars aligned just for this moment,
just for this one sip.
Because it’s the only love we’ve ever known.
The kind of love that stretches like skin over bones;
the kind of love that resembles the scent of your grandfather’s cologne;
the kind of love that makes no sense, but at least it never makes us feel alone.
The kind of love that makes us raw, tender, human.