Your name sounds like a hurricane in my chest, exits my lips like debris from a storm that ravaged the land of my memory.
It sounds like the culmination of pain, like the breaking of the earth, like the ground swallowing my joy, like the sun fell from the sky and burnt my peace to a crisp, like a tsunami drowning the remnants of my hope, it chokes and gropes at my serendipity.
Your name sounds like dying light, like the stars being ripped from the sky, like a moon that will never see the sun rise and a sun that will never see the moon smile.
Your name sounds like the saddest story ever told, like living your whole life alone, like your body not wanting itself, like a child that will never be loved.
It sounds like a weeping man, like everything he ever loved being taken from him.
It sounds like armageddon in my soul, like my spirit being shattered by the quakes of your hate, like the butterflies in my stomach taking their last flutters, like the day the earth will stand still...like the end of everything I will ever know.
Your name sounds like the birth of death. So you'll have to forgive, for the fact that I keep it locked away in the abyss of my forgetfulness.
I still wanna see my tomorrow.

She births poetry like a universe of constellations.
Sometimes,
she parts her lips like the hips of the woman about to bring magic into this world, the labour of her poetry is never easy, never smooth, difficult to stomach, but the words she births from her belly carry life like breath, like the fruit of the earth.
There is a beautiful pain to them.

-Nativity

Other times,
Her poetry was like good ***,
She parted her lips like the legs of a woman about to begin the most primitive form of Love, giving as much as she could take. Sometimes she would ride the poetry, reverse cowgirling it to the ****** of her ecstasy and other times, it would ride her,
Leaving its essence inside her.

-Inception

At one time,
She parted her lips like the mouth of a woman who is about to blow, your mind.
Never for her pleasure, it did nothing for her.
Her satisfaction lied solely in yours,
it was selfless, unselfish, an act of true altruism.
She broke for people, who loved people but did not love her.

-Misconception

But the first time,
She was the poetry, being birthed from the lips of the cradle of woman kind, the first time she was the magic, the life, taking her first breath, her first wisp of earth,
And it smelt like words that bleed, that change, that make love, that celebrate, that birth other words.
The first time she was the poetry, so the poetry became her.

-Birth