she said she was broken
needed fixing
came for the fix
I said “look honey,
I don’t do clockwork”

aren’t we all a work in progress?
living is working,
and it doesn’t stop,
until we do.

improving a skill,
losing a habit,
and improving yourself,
are all ways we keep functioning.

however,
we can also
gain weight
sleep too much
pick up vices,
but that doesn’t mean
we’re not working.

we’re all incompleted
until we no longer exist,
on this earth.
i’ll forever be
a work in progress,
until progress
has terminated.
as will you.

Cello cords snap, slice, fresh
Wounds bloom next to old scabs
Rosy slits puncture through cotton gloves
With thread and time, they say
We’ll mend.
Intertwining blows face a silent war
Unwinded by a cannon salute.
Across the battlefield
Conductors pick up their batons
Holding ready
Waiting
For you to throw
The opening note
Waiting
For me to throw
The first Molotov
Shatters.
The trumpet hook screeches
A familiar overture blares
Confetti glass garnishes our drinks
Gasoline reek, whiskey aftertaste
A night of dancing dares.
We fall back
Into a bed of thorns
Composed by sleepless fights
We have not learned to knit or sew
Our petals dangle from the receptacle
Swaying to the chorus.

When we got together I quickly learned that
he liked to fix things;
whether it be cars, toys or even people.

But I didn't need fixing.

So he peeled me apart,
petal after petal,
until I was no more than broken glass on the floor.

Then, he started stitching.

Where he had ripped me at the seams he
sewed my wounds together and glued the pieces back
until he was satisfied.

He was done knitting.

What I forgot to mention was
that he'd always grow bored a short while later
so he eventually left me for somebody else

"who needed fixing."

i have experienced writer’s block before,
but not like this...
not when i’ve forgotten the meaning of every word that comes to mind,
every word except one: you

you are by far the worst thing that has happened to my poetry
because, before, i could write about my sadness,
about how the world was closing in on me,
but you stood in the way of that
almost as if you were saying 'no, darling, let me show you something new.'
so you showed me the world in a new light,
and suddenly it felt so big i did not know how to deal with it;
could not find the words to describe what i was feeling,
could not find the words.

in the weeks that we have been together,
my sadness became dormant.
sometimes,
sometimes it still erupts out of me;
the hot lava of my tears washing away any hope i had had left.
but even in those moments
you have been there,
there for the repercussion,
for the mending,
there for me.

Now all i can write about is you, you are the only thing that makes sense in my lines,
like, you belong there, you were made to be my inspiration.
around you, my verses and phrases dance, tangle themselves in your eyelashes,
curl themselves around your legs
a beautiful revelation of purpose.
until it doesn’t make sense anymore
and then i am stuck again
stuck in the spaces between the words that adore you so
but to them, i am a prisoner, forbidden from venturing out into the world of rhyme schemes and verses

this is what has been happening to me since you’ve left

and let me tell you,
the day you left i was
preparing myself for a novel
filled with wit and conversation
and joy
but now i can hardly find a single line
that doesn’t call out your name

*how could i ever forget about the way you hurt me
if you are all my writing remembers?