Too often careless words of love and assurance slip through lovers’ lips.

Trembling and flushed, able bodies twist to shield their scarred skin,

whispering over and over again,

My beauty. My beauty. My wonderful love.

Desperate lovers that so recklessly have forgotten

that words of love are black canvases.

Beauty is the curve of her hip as his fingers trace the contours of her skin.

Beauty is the unblemished skin on his neck, begging for her touch.

She is beautiful in her strength and hope, laced in her every atom.

He is beautiful in his admiration and inspiration, giving him life.

Misguided lovers, the word “beautiful” by itself is empty. Fill it with color and life. Gently whisper your praises or bellow them into the warm afternoon air. Proclaim your love with vibrant passion, emanating from every touch and kiss. Do not use “beauty” and “love” carefully; release them recklessly and overflowing with audacious devotion. Mold the words to fit your lovers, sheltering them from the hatred and the pain- until there is no doubt of that beauty or love.

Perhaps a love for an enemy’s words

comes not from a fickle resolve

but from a devotion to the beauty of language.

In between silken sheets, I am your weapon
to be molded against the horrors of time and society.
Take me to your war.
Let me be your shield against the expectations, the pain, the agony.
Release your frustration in the space where our breaths linger,
bury your worries in between the folds of my skin,
burrow yourself into the world we create with our bodies.
Whether you curl into my arms as a child clings to his mother,
or you violently move my body to a flickering desperate masculinity,
use my limbs as a your blanket of defense.
Rip away these barriers and release everything to me.
Change the world in between four walls.
Forget creating love,
let’s create a ******* revolution.

Sometimes,
    I
find
               that
words
     just
                           don't
     seem
         to
fit.
        Oh,
                  dear.

My body is stitched together by the beauty of language, foolish hopes and dreams, and seventeen years of slight displacement.
My child-like finger are formed slightly smaller than expected, attempting to catch my tears as they fall from my tired eyes but failing each time.
My heart beats as if placed a few inches too far to the left, pounding against my rib-cage as a constant reminder of the sea of liquid that rushes through my body with each pump and ***** the size of my fist that sits like a ticking bomb.
My lungs are a little too large, taking in all the hope and inspiration that hangs in the air on a silent winter morning but always somehow finding enough space for a poisonous breath of hatred.
My eyes are a little too far apart, greedily marveling in the beauty of a night sky but failing to see the beauty in four limbs and a slightly-larger-than-average torso.
My reflection is a little too weak, burdened with the weight of aging eyes and a young mind and unable to hold the weight of a simple dream.
Seventeen years of displacement, yet it is now that I learn to take my first steps with my slight imperfections.

Words begin to form in my fragmented mind, swirl around the base of my neck, flutter across my bare skin, caress each curve, absorb the essence of my body and grow larger with each twist and turn.
They gather in groups and beautiful ensembles, singing glorious tunes.
They race towards my fingertips and my hand twitches in anticipation as I bolt to catch them.

Suddenly, moments before my net reaches its place,
these ensembles flutter off my body, race off my fingers,
and fade into the infinite atmosphere.
I face towards the sky and  breath in deeper to catch the essence of any few remaining,
but all that fills my lungs are the heavier words weighed by their sorrow.
Fragmented words
separated from their companions,
left to dissolve
among the abundance molecules and atoms.

So I bow my head and clutch my net, awaiting the next cluster of delicate, glorious words.

Lay down, tear your chest cavity open
and lead my fingers to the burned edges of your body,
damaged by your malicious and poisonous thoughts.
As our limbs tangle, let my eyes wander around the crevices in your chest,
each one scarred from your constant battles and wars.
Let our colliding breaths, mingling in the air,
chill your open heart as you show me
how valiantly it beats through your pains and struggles.
Show me the wrinkles on this muscle in your chest
from each time your heart swelled to accommodate the love you felt for others  
and contracted from the lack of it.
Let me peek at your precious soul as your lips on mine
weave tales of your past, your present, and our future.
Before I release three fatal words, let our actions speak for us.