Your dress was plum;
although, my fantasies remember Maroon.
Dancing in God’s house, you moved like scripta,
and I burned like the sinner’s hands.
Had you blushed near me again, I was going
to hold it against myself.

Thrice removed
(grief-stricken) and held against him,
I am empty of you.

But not yet extinguished from your singe of interest,
of your reading me like The Price of Salt.
Wondering, suppose I call, if your
arrival would be the difference of a few vowels.
Divine intervention, master of my curiosity,
I spend my evenings drunk on forbidden fruits.

Pardon my chaos talking in triangles–
of lust’s longing in color–
our tortured poet already said it best.

I can't think straight because I'm not.
I love one girl who is so hot!
And in this poem I want to show
How hetero people are ruining it all...

To think straight means... To hate!
To think you'll burn in the hell if you were born gay;
But beating their child is completely okay.
To think that clothes really matters;
If you're a girl then must wear dresses.
To think that colors have gender;
But boys used to wear pink, remember?
To think when a woman has body hair then she's so ugly!
But when a man has the same then he's very lovely!
To think they're normal and others are not;
In fact only they are stupid a lot!
Arguments against same s3x marriages they try to introduce;
But forget that straight couples are full of abuse.

Our world would be so much better
If you shut up your mouth, "dear" hetero...

A fainting pink, the color I have to resist
To stare at as we pass by the textured walls of our hallways

There isn't much he knows about her,
Except for the bottles of strawberry flavored wax
She takes and uses up within months

I dream of what it tastes like.

Not the strawberry scent she lingers on every one of his clothes
But the lips she has to polish every single hour,
Applying and reapplying
Again and again

On my bed, I hold that scent close,
That stain of wax that missed her skin,
Landing mistakenly on my shirt

If I rub it off on my cheek,
My neck,
My lips
Would it be the same?

The same type of love she gives to him,
On 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒅,
To 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔,
In 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎...

The room that stands next to mine.

I cant help myself.
That artificial sweetness on her skin teases the strings I spun just for her in my heart
When I weave my way to her through the harsh rivers of doubt to get a whiff of what could've been
A future without scented walls to separate us

But hearing her through those thin plaster barricades,
My waxy layers melt off,
As the canister holding my strawberry sacrifice calls from the basin
Of discarded chapsticks that once gave her so much joy

Give me the satisfaction
Of knowing that you're recycling this affection
For what?!
Why don't you enlighten me with capped closure
Instead of covering up essential oils with his favorite perfume

Because even when you force yourself to pucker up into unscented soberness,
You know you can't stand the blank space
Between this balm and your lips

So I'll ask of you tonight, my one and only, to please
Hold me tight,
Lead me on,
And promise to love 𝒎𝒆...
Through your chapstick kisses to him.

I've never thought about love
That's an illusion  
I used to tell myself

But then I saw it  
It was a sparkle  
It was a rhythm

The rhythm of your thighs
Moving on my body  
Like a dance in the light

Until I closed my eyes
And I realized
They were leading me  
One step closer  
To the devil

How many rooms of the house
do I have to clean
to get rid of you?

Which will happen first;
my arms falling off or my heart falling out?
Which do you think would be more painful?

Because you didn't rip it out
and stamp all over it.
It isn't like how people say.

You left it there,
with the damage that you had done.
You left it there to rot.

It can't be cleaned like the rooms of the house.
I simply don't see how
I can ever get clean of you.

If my arms fall off
then I can no longer reach for you
But i think

I would rather my heart fall out
so that I am free of you
and the desire to reach - to cling - can be gone.

I had longed to wash your clothes alongside mine,
For them to share that space outside of ourselves.

And now, I am trying to wash you out of them.
They lay beside mine tainting everything I own
with memories of you.

I had longed to exist alongside you,
Even trapsing behind you would have sufficed.

And now, I am running to keep up;
Begging you to turn around.
But on you go, without me.

I have been cursed by the spell of Aphrodite.
No matter how much wrong you do,
I am a fool blinded by you.
You could drag my soul through the waters of Styx,
with a spell so powerful that it would delude me to think Tartarus itself was greater than Olympus.
I can no longer speak your name upon my lips,
for whenever I do, it is an incantation to you.

Yet no matter how much I curse your name,
I cannot help but to be in awe of your beauty.
Your mere memory itself makes me fall deeper into your spell.
I am a madman, longing for just a whiff of your perfume.
I curse your name, but in the shadows I worship you.
Never have I seen true beauty until I looked upon your face.
How I curse Aphrodite for working through the vessel that is you.

My dearest Angelina —

Your lips were as red
as the mistletoe that hung above us
on christmas eve;
Now your stomach was covered
with the color that I loved,
And your head hung low
when my blade pierced you
as it rained.