golden flowers on her dress

like stars in the night sky

bringing comfort to distant eyes

walking along
the shorelines of the abyss —
the corals are charcoal,
and the sand is coarse.
hand in hand with cacti —
your thorny grip reaches deep
as I mark my steps,
pollinating the sand beneath;
looking around for seashells,
and hearing their voice —
their echoes cry tales of voyages
and love lost,
of deserted sailors
and meandered lovers.
your lips are dry,
and your hair is tangled —
it looks like it'd hurt
to kiss you.

Smiling at you,
your eyes lowered,
stitched to your shoes,
while your lips invite me,
already aware
of what moves inside me.

I unfasten you
with the slow flutter
of my lashes,
peeling you open
breath by breath,
learning the shape
of your desire
as if it were my own.

A fenced suburban dream
where we raised hyacinths,
and you had a faint smile
under the July sun,
under your cowboy hat.

Breath seeps from me
as I lay on the wet tile,
thinking of you.

Someday, I swear,
we can do everything we want to.
And we can pet the crocodiles.

Every day I think of
untwisting and untangling
these strings I’m in.

Every day I think
of taking your hand
and slaying all who stand in my way.

All these thoughts
have led me
to this cul-de-sac.

our canvases were born
from chaos at midnight.
colour spilling with the smoke
of cigarettes waiting
patiently in the tray.
we wove them in
with the brushstrokes
then let it breathe
so the magic would dry.

'darkness is coming',
dark blue across white
a bird slurping
rainwater from petals.
or something like that.
art is supposed to
make you feel something.
ours wasn't there to be nice.

one day,
it wasn't there at all.

i came home,
and found them gone —
shredded and torn.
the reminder,
that hands crafted them
that wouldn't caress you,
was unbearable.

i'm sorry.
that i shouted at you.
that i couldn't respect
you needed space,
a clear head
away from the clutter
that came with me.

i would have done the same.
we don’t get to choose
who we let in,
and who we love.
the only choice we have
is whether to erase it
slowly,
or all at once.

Nobody’s.
Just want to be somebody’s.

Me: I spill my guts.
DM: Nothing happens.

What if I told you I dreamed too high,
But you always wanted me low?

My head clearly belongs in the clouds
While your face is upside down, in the ground.

My feet on the very edge of the chair.
Too busy in my fabricated daydreams, unaware.

Do I miss you? Not really.
Thanks for all the times you treated me painfully.

If only you could see me now,
I could take you to those clouds.

But I know one day you’ll visit me
Bothered by the disgusting feelings.

I loved when your hands were on me,
But now all I feel is the weight of rope tightening.