Really mean bullies are like slinkies
Not good for much
but they bring a smile to people's faces
...when pushed down the stairs
Some truly unkind people
who hurt others to build themselves up
are pretty much still alive
Only because
It is illegal to **** them
But you know what?
Maybe that is just because they need a high five
...in the face...
...with a brick.

It's hard to believe
at one point in my life
I had almost completely
given-up.

But is that not
life within itself?
Going through
peaks and valleys
while falling in-love
with those
that actually care
to help?

Yes,
It is truly
funny how things
work out.

Because all the
problems
I once had,
are now
all the things
I laugh
about.

A chief reason
Polyamory isn't for me
is that I am lucky
to have the Time
one Love deserves.

You
Me
Them
They
Us
Her
Him

I need a break from all of that. No more memories. Please. Just stop.

Hand placed over my eyes
"You can't see! You're blind!"
You sang in my ear playfully,
I was laughing too hard to speak,
trying and failing to remove your hand
from my eyes,
so I could stare at you.

My small fingers prying your large ones from my eyes,
your other hand clamps down on my eyes again,
I don't care,
One of my hands still enclosed around yours,
I don't want to let go.

I finally pry your other hand from my eyes,
we're laughing uncontrollably staring at each other.

The first thing I see is your neck,
the first part of you my eyes land on,
I lick my lips,
tearing my eyes away,
laughing again.

My thoughts are somewhere else,
still lingering on your neck,
and the attack I would love to launch there.

I bite my lip,
thinking of the kisses I would lay upon your skin,
the way I'd pull myself close to you,
fingertips pressing lightly into your shoulder,
as you writhe under me,
kisses from your collarbone to your ear,
your jaw to your temple.

My mouth leaving my ***** thoughts written across your neck,
my nose trailing along your skin,
taking in the way you smell,
the way it makes me feel.

You make my fingers shake with a thought,
you make my mouth go slack with a simple,
you make me simple with your gestures
and voice.

I'm pulled back by you saying something,
I recover in record time,
shoving you in the shoulder,
"I hate you,"
the words tumble out before I think about them,
I'm still smiling.

"No you don't."
you say with that stupid smile of yours.
I shake my head,
because I don't.
I really don't.

After all this time, I have learnt to write in the dark. See, this jukebox plays every night and it wouldn’t shut up no matter the pounds I fed. Such is the night of a writer; it goes on shuffle and repeat. And sometimes I hear your voice. Most times, it sounded like folding a picture of us and keeping it in the pockets of a stranger’s jeans, probably ending up tumbled and dried. I ask myself if it could have been a painted canvas. It’s just the thought of you that haunts me at night. If you ever do heart to heart talks, let’s talk about haunted houses. Some people get out of it; some don’t; some re-enter just for the thrill of it. I might be all three and I might not be the most played song in your playlist. I have tried several times to write about you, but none of them sounded right when I read them out loud. Some may write what they believe and some may write to believe; I might or might not be both. If I survived writing this prose, how could I be sure if it was your voice haunting me or if you were just a house I sought refuge in? The Northern Lights stays in the Aurora Zone; no one said that they’d ever Go West. Your skin on mine was like a child holding on to candy, I never wanted to let you go. When I wake, I only wonder if you have ever missed me at 3a.m.. I could make a mixtape titled: I heard you in these songs. But you were one who basked in the light. So I guess it’s safe to say that what was written in the dark stays in the dark.