I'll make you a doll of clay;
I'll fire it and paint it for you.
You can love the doll or break it.
Take the doll instead of me,
so if the doll gets broken I'd still be okay.

Poetry is not synonymous for love.
Poetry is not synonymous for pain.
But I can make its words into an adjective
and use it to describe the tightening in my chest when I look at you
or the tightening in my chest
when you look the other way.

what doesn't **** you
doesn't make you stronger

it doesn't do anything at all

nothing.

I can see the storm
on the horizon
Dark clouds on the sky
the wind blows
drowning all sounds
youre as wild as a storm
closer and closer
the thunder comes
across the sky
I miss you more and more
Our love is like a
sweet blue rain

My body has not once been a temple.

I remember years ago,
sitting poolside with my grandmother,
her spidery, veined hands touching my knee:

"Your body is a grand temple,
only those who are holy are worth admittance."

And her stern sincerity made me laugh.

My body is a wet, lush jungle.
My body has been trampled through and lived in.

Destroyed, burned,
yet always continues to rebirth itself from the rubble and debris.

Am I any less for this?

My body is a mystery,
a slow wafer on the tip of a school boy's tongue.
A dark, cool place to rest your weary head.
A place to let your feet press into the rich soil
and feel like maybe you can call this home.

I think one time,
a man with dark hair and light eyes thought he could
reduce me to mere trees and rain,
not knowing the jungle is not a safe place.

Unlike those with temples for bodies,
my heart lives deep in a hidden cave guarded with
sharp memories that feel like claws.

My memories have teeth,
and my heart has a brain.

its hard,
to let go.
i never thought,
that i would say goodbye.

im still suffering.
i feel like im nothing.

im just a desperate nobody
wishing to have somebody
to call my own