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You pull me in
And grab my face

You plant a kiss
It tastes like pennies
For many hours,
Two or three,
Pages flipped by too dry fingers.
Lick the thumb,
Flip and balance on my chest,
Neck angled oddly.
Training and straining
My scarred retinas
Begging for some timely fatigue
Is nothing tangible,
But to be enjoyed
And dissected,
Experienced by some
You’d love,
And hate,
But nonetheless
Through loving me
They’ll know parts of you -
Which is beautiful,
And sad,
Like a muddied Monet
With gorgeous ponds and
Lillies,
Yet the water is ice cold
Waiting endlessly for the plunge.
i struggle to not use
i in every poem
i write and at some point
i feel like it throws the perspective off. but
i also think maybe it feels right to
you, reader.
i'd love some insight, or something else to think about, but
i also think if
i don't let some steam out, the campbell's can that is
my brain will start to overheat like the hershey's
i used to leave in the center console of
my honda accord, but it wouldn't take long to solidify if
i shoved them in the air vents bc for some reason
i had a ton of fun sized bars? and if
i think hard enough,
i believe my first bf stole a giant bag of halloween candy and
i, the bonnie to my clyde, ate that **** for months. now all
i have are some stale tootsie pops, but luckily
i didn't get any trick-or-treaters this year.
Kev
hot red flames
pour down my cheeks;
my chest hurts,
you are here.

you can't be seen -
nor felt or heard,
but somewhere you
see me.

shows of affection,
scenes aiming towards my rocky foundation;
like that puny pebble to the giant.
i fall.

if squeezed hard enough,
eyes clenched until there's stars,
it's felt that you are proud,
or would be,
wherever you are.
grief is beautiful because the bursts of pain is almost all that's tangible
The adrenaline when facing the gun
Feels a lot better than pride lost
Walking away,
But realizing discomfort in safety
Benefits longer than awaiting the
Unsure -
Rather the less likely,
Putting a target on my back heavier
Than I was ever destined to bear.
Wishing the shooter well
Knowing someday I’ll be held by one
With pillow arms
And a softer heart.
A message sent
At a crafted time.
Manipulative, maybe…
Best luck be mine -
Not you, likely never
Truth stained in the sand,
But one last time
Let me shake your hand
I don’t know if you ever made it, but I can imagine you really wanted to and something probably came first that you love a lot and that’s special though not for me -
Apparently.
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