I spoke of your love like supernatural force. I struggled to string words together to form proper tribute to this love- the beauty of your love. I sang of a vivid lively love, and I am sorry.

I am sorry I spoke of your love so highly, sang of atoms and stars as I confessed how broken my body is compared to yours. I’m sorry my words slipped from my lips in desperate plea and your fingers did not reach to catch each leaping syllable. I’m sorry I misread desperation as love. I’m sorry I didn't recognize that your love is not love- it is desperation.

So here’s the truth. Your love is slaughter. Your love is gaping body waiting for trusted vulture to feast. Your love is not yours-your love is not love. My body will never be as broken- my heart will never be as weak. This body and soul know a greater love to themselves than you have yet to experience. You mistake this vulture’s gouging for gentle kisses, but I have never mistaken the intent behind my fingertips, the love and respect behind the touches. When this body falls, these atoms will not fall forsaken lost particles- they will be vibrant soldiers glowing before joining their home among the stars.

So here’s my sincere apology to myself. I’m sorry that I declared this body broken after witnessing something I misread as love. I do not want this abusive love-offering my heart and body to men who do not respect it as it should be revered. I do not want a boy’s lingering touch if my name is not a prayer in his mind. I do not want a boy’s lips on mine if he cannot see the universe reflected in my vibrant eyes. I can live with this love that lies in my soul- pulsing, growing, vibrant- until I find someone who will offer me more than scraps. I deserve so much more than scraps.

Your muse was broken bone and cracked spirit but that never quite fit right, did it? Like a smoldering flame that only existed in the corner of your eye- ceasing existence when you turn posed with a bucket of water. Then one day the word atom stuck and you could feel the particles on your skin turn towards the word like the energy it resonated was a kiss from mother's familiar lips. You molded the word into cracked spirit, lonely body, lone mind, liberated soul, and finally whole woman and eventually your eyes stopped seeing gold lining and began fading and now your pen posed over paper reaches anticlimatic endings like whole bodies running towards each other in ecstacy but failing to touch. Words fall from your fingertips but without a muse they don't carry any weight. You're violating laws of physics with your massless words, dear. Loneliness, depression, loneliness, independence, loneliness, self-love, loneliness, self-doubt- how many times can you repeat words before they begin to escape the laws of meaning. A language of gibberish born from your lonely ramblings. When the universe sends you a placeholder next to your body, he will drown in your words and will have to leave to save his soul. That's the only outcome, darling.

The wind is rampant- each breath angrier than the last, molten desire swirling, churning rage diving into aching lungs and rattling old bones. Waking dormant ghosts- too long since a haunting, body unsettled, skin too afraid for revolution, the wind is rampant.

The night could have been symphony. The night could have been tired, excited, cold crescendo- movement for the ages, leaving audience breathless, ravaged, robbed, pitiful, burning. But the wind is howling with rage and no harmony or melody was emitted last night and the audience slept soundly in their beds while concert hall laid empty and silent- the wind is rampant still. Howling still.

The coffee is a peaceful body, unlike hostile skin and bones lined with anger- the coffee is momentary creation then years silent. It is Sunday morning ritual, filtered sunlight dancing on coffee table, gentle melody over gentle soothing tongue- but the wind is too rampant and coffee too dark and mouth too bitter and bed too empty and symphony too silent for Sunday morning ritual.

My, how easily the wind blows, how powerful, how rampant. The sky’s jealous flames raining hell on peaceful ritual- perhaps today is more gust than breeze, more fire than stream, more burning than warmth.

You are merely an indentation on war-torn lands- a fading fingerprint on skin that stretches for miles- but a wonderful one all the same.

There is no greater love than that between the united shadows of two entwined lovers.

See, I love like my arms are frayed rope. Thin fragments of stretched belief keep my body strung together, and the slightest tug will unravel my terrified soul. I love like my atoms are fickle subjects, and my heart is a weak king. I love like my body’s religion is instability, and I’m only waiting for my cells to dissolve in the fear that rushes through my veins.

You love like it’s a battle, your heart being the only true weapon that can wreak havoc. You allow desperate hopes and doubts slip from your lips like they will bloom in the air and find asylum in a being’s arms. You hold hands like you’re a savior, and your lover will drown without the strength of your grip. You love like your body dares to defy the laws of the world. You love like you commanded the stars to deliver this being to your embrace. His atoms were destined to meet yours. Destiny has yet to learn my name.

When our bodies pass and our atoms finally dissipate into the ravaged Earth, the only difference will be this. Your fragments will leave their place reluctantly; they have grown accustomed to thriving in spirited and loved body. My cells will break apart with ease; my body has always been ravaged with gaps and rifts and has long grown tired of holding together worthless fragments.

These bones cannot bring themselves to love just yet. The skin draped across this body has yet to find it’s proper position, constantly shifting as if displaced. My heart is 2 inches too far to the left, and I can hear the scraping of muscle against bone with each step I take. My lungs are far too shriveled and haven’t stretched to their great capacity since my first gulp of air. My body is shrinking within itself and a body that is fading from existence cannot be loved.

I want to be ****** back into place. I want someone’s lips to force my soul back into its deteriorating body. I want his body pressing against mine until our hatred and fear cloud the lines between my body and I am no longer concerned with the space we occupy. I want soft sounds to echo from his mouth again and again and again until I have scientifically proven that my body is a solid form that can elicit emotion from another body. I want to feel his pounding hard, writhing form, panting body under mine until my bones can’t hear the sound of their weakness anymore. I want to be ****** until my heart is ****** back to it’s place, my lungs are stretched past their capacity to the point of pain, my bones are broken and regrown in stronger form, my eyes are torn from the inside of my body and forced to see the blurring lines of the exploding universe, my atoms are pushed closer together until my solid form cannot be denied. I want someone’s body to teach mine that it can be wanted in the most obscene, terrifying ways. Maybe then, I’ll forget that shame and hatred have interwoven themselves through my atoms, forcing me to believe that I am not and will never be whole.