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~~~


is the heart
that refuses to love
unbreakable?

or is it

*broken already?
Never give up on love

~~~
 Jan 2015 Taru Marcellus
JDK
These poems are for posterity (because mind-loss runs in the family.)
I dedicate all this poetry to my progeny, but most importantly,
to the one and only Future Me.
That old guy who's worn out and world-weary.
The one who's losing his memories,
and can't keep track of what he thinks.

These are all for you.

I'll record the lowest lows and highest highs.
Presented for the perusal of his (yours, my) rheumy eyes.
I might embellish at times -
I might even lie.
I just want to be able to look back and realize:
It's been an incredible life.
Remember Grammy.
 Jan 2015 Taru Marcellus
Kataleya
Love her like
She's the raging sea,
Unrestrained and dark and deep.
And you crave her touch
Through aching pores
As you slowly drown in sleep.

Love her like
She's the tender storm,
A lovely shade of grey.
Like with every whiff
Of breath she takes,
She's taking yours away.

Love her like
She's the silent clouds
With calmness floating by.
Like you'd want to make
Sweet love to her
Under the moon's apocalyptic eye.

Love her like
She's the blazing fire,
And you lust the candied pain.
Like she's the disease
That swallowed you whole
And you'd like to die again.

When her gentle touch
Makes your chest explode,
And your addiction is your girl.
Promise you'll love her
Through hell and back,
Or don't you dare love her at all.
is your faith so fragile
you **** to protect it?
no notes necessary
 Jan 2015 Taru Marcellus
One4u2nv
As a child I would eat crayons and then purge oceans onto paper.
She said, "I can't swim"
With a voice so confident
The ocean believes
They're still best friends.
 Jan 2015 Taru Marcellus
Mikaila
There's something about paint
That begs to feel skin
Something about
How smooth it is,
How it can rise and fall in little dobs and smudges.
Sometimes when it's very late
And I am painting and my palette is a whirl of color
I press my palms right into the middle of it
Like a child
And I settle them there, making sure every ridge and wrinkle is covered.
When I pull back and see the design
I always like my hands much better than before.
And then I think
Why stop at hands?
I stand and strip off what clothing I'm still wearing
And look at my body in the mirror,
All white and shining in the dimness, a sliver of bone
And I make it different with my hands.
Handprints.
I have always wanted to do it with a lover-
To cover her in painted handprints and have her cover me,
To wear the evidence of every place we touch
In the colors that blend on our skin.
Alone in the mirror,
I place careful palms on my stomach, my legs, my *******, my shoulder.
I do it until I like the dissymmetry of myself.
I step back,
And wonder why I feel that I look more natural like this
Than bare.
A tumble of black hair, a sheath of white skin,
And on it
Crimson
Gold
Azure
Onyx
Fiery orange and icy blue
Poison green and violet
Blood red and blushing pink
All swirled and smudged, holding the shape of my fingerprints,
And I am more me
Than I was before.
Later it will dry and crack like clay.
Later I will shed it like a second skin, fascinated by its uneven splattering.
It will slough off, painless and mesmerizing, and I will be what I was before-
A sliver of bone.
But for now I am a canvas, and tonight, for once, I have not been left
Unaltered.
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