She slowly bites
into a ripe
summer peach.
I watch its nectar run
over the chin;
and down her neck,
disappearing
between her *******.
I stifle a gasp
and bite
my lip.

I hate phrases like, "bruise like a peach."
Implying that you have to be weak to feel pain.
I look at you, know that you're hurting
and think that out of all the fruit in a basket,
you are very much an apple.

We have grown into fresh peaches,
Full blooming curves, rosy surfaces.
Each teeming with the desire
To be handled by a pair of hands.
So, tell me little peach,

How did it feel like to have your juice
Run down his throat?

We are no longer flower childs,
We are maidens, suddenly seated in front
Of the mirror, the ends of our hair
Carrying the weight of our youth.

Mornings, i sit with my knees
propped up like a temple and I pray
that love come as close as loneliness does.

(One night I tried to kiss my own arms
-a train track from elbows to wrists to fingers-
With the lights off. Was it my lips or arm that burned?
In the interlude of tears between my closed eyes
I wondered what it’ll be like
To have another claim me by the mouth
Like that.)

Even when I’m not in love
I’m more in love than you are
In love.

Black dots
merge to static fuzz
what happened to the analogue
barchart of colour
TV talks
shut up you’ve had enough
internal groans
sighs of bones
peach bruises from prodding
and tracks protruding from every scratch
oh elbow angled saviour
save me from this labour
oh blessed *******
pray within and linger
this my body
this my cup
had my fill with
not enough

You take a bite and I am full,
watching the Nile of desire drip
from your mouth down to your breast and
disappear, like fleeting summer
wind.

i held my head up,
propped up against false ideas,
and naive hopes.
I dreamt I came back to you.
everything repeated.
I found solace in the cold feeling of blood dripping from my fingertips,
stumbled upon comfort in a dark room with a light year between us.
and your love was only something I earned with compliancy,
and I continued to reach for fire knowing the burns would outweigh the warmth.
but if I am to pretend that I can cross a light year,
I will stride through dark bedroom after dark bedroom if it means I can find comfort
living in between your blows.
and if I am to pretend that what I consider living is of quality,
I will live in the light that comes before and after
your strikes bring darkness.
and if I live in my daydreams,
without end,
I will always split my skin to remind myself I bleed.
I will always reach for the flame to know that I burn.
I will always cross light years of nothingness to feel the comfort that hides in the dark.
I will live in the light years of nothingness,
I will come from nothingness,
I will be reborn from the ashes of what has burnt me.