a striking slice along the creamy white
freckle galaxy that is my thighs

is this what i've become?

a dab of crimson, slow pour at first
then a scarlet waterfall, perfect picture of my pain.

why did i do this

throbbing pain, dulling my senses
my mind is numb, almost at ease.

it hurts, i knew it would

gently easing cotton over wound,
bittersweet burgundy blood, feeding into pristine purity

what have i done

Art is just art unless you start feeling.
Words are just words unless you give them some meaning.
Love is just love unless you do actions.
Hate is just hate unless you give it some traction.

I'm crazy about you.
I love everything little
part
piece
and section.

She was like music,
and I longed to dance.

Her heart was the beat,
and I begged for the chance.

Her words were the vocals,
and I was put in a trance.

Her smile was the melody,
and I fell in love at first glance.

I wonder
will my words
reveal
the truth
of how I feel
or felt.

I remember
myself
curled in a
a curving
form
when I
was very
young
and going
to sleep.

Knee
collapsing
into my
stomach,
hands
around
my knees,
as if
I was a
rolly polly
worm
or a child
who was trying
to remain
unseen.

Why did I
compact myself
in such a
manner?

It's not love if it doesn’t destroy you,

It’s not love if it doesn’t drive you insane,

It’s not love if it doesn’t change you,

It’s not love if it doesn’t make you question the world,

It’s not love if it doesn’t make you fight unknown battles,

It’s not love if it doesn’t damage you in the prettiest way possible,

It’s not love if it doesn’t show you stars, galaxies, sun, moon in his/her eyes.

It’s not love if it doesn’t involve madness.

It’s not love if it doesn’t come with devastatingly beautiful destruction.

i do not understand
how people can write poems upon poems upon poems
talking about romance
two people
in love

how could they give so much of their affection,
their attention,
their love to other people

when i can't even find the courage to say the words
"i love myself"