Someone asked me what my greatest fear is. I failed to answer it honestly. It's a loaded question. Well, in English class today we were talking about last words & how they're always along the lines of "I wish I had travelled more, loved more, spent more time doing the things I enjoy" & they were never "I wish I worked more, been more successful." We were talking about how people who live in a somewhat wild manner (drifters, artists, people who dance on the outskirts of society) tend to feel much more fulfilled than those who succeeded in, for instance, a career path they'd always wanted. I spent the rest of the day looking up peoples' last words. And I think that's it- my fear, I mean. The scarcity of it all. The fleeting moments of happiness that don't have to be fleeting. I have hands. I'm afraid I won't use them enough. I'm afraid I will use my mouth for all the wrong reasons. I'm afraid I will do everything for no reason at all. I don't want to have any last words. Maybe I want to look up at the sun one last time, see it rise and fall. I don't want to have to tell you "I love you" or anything like that. I need you to know that I do. I need to know that I did it right.

Your lips taste like wine but I miss when they tasted like water
and your eyes stare back like a sign indicating a cross road when you don't know where you're going
and your hands trail my skin like you're looking for home in all the wrong places

Did I forget to tell you that I have never been home either?

Did I forget to tell you that I am less home,
more motel room?
Less forest
Less evergreen
More woods
More dark and deep and quiet.
Quiet like the nights thick with emptiness
Quiet like the nights spent in this cluttered room
filled with all the empty bottles
you've held longer to your lips than you've ever held me
but I stay because I understand
and I stay because I wish you'd change your mind
and I stay because I wish that maybe you'll change mine

I only dress pretty because I like the way your breath stops as I shyly toy with the straps of my dress. 

“Would you kiss me here?”

The ebb and flow of things.

With every one of your shaky exhales more layers of soft fabric will drop to reveal even softer skin, as if my ****** functions are in sync with your breath. We are connected this way.

“I want you to bite me here”

The ebb and flow of things.

I close my eyes to the rhythm of your heart rate speeding up.

Your eyes are wide open.

Ebb and flow.

I dress myself up, and I am alone again.

The ebb and flow of things.

I remember the sting of the belt, the sting of the knife, and how easy it was to forget about the pain once I woke up next to you. I remember how every fibre of my being wanted to kiss you awake. But then I recalled that you don’t sleep very much. And I turned away, closing my eyes. Letting you disappear, retreat into yourself, even as you lay next to me.

The sting of your silence is what I can’t un-feel. A wound destined to never heal.

You were like a train coming at me head-on. I saw you from a great distance, but I couldn't be bothered to move. Don't kiss train wrecks.
I wasn't afraid.

They say the seconds before your death are elongated, that time feels different there. The clock ticks in an altered fashion. What is nothing but a mere millisecond, a second if you're lucky, is outstretched in the passing between life and death. That's how our time together felt.

DON'T KISS TRAIN WRECKS

Like any other story,  my happiness was short lived. Reality intervened and that collision was far worse than any train wreck. You told me it was foolish, to presume we would ever truly be good together. You spoke these words in such a way, like I should have known- and oh, I should have. Don't kiss train wrecks.

You were but a passing train. I was lost, stumbling stupidly in your way, as if I was appointing you to save my life. Irony had never been so cruel.

I felt a numbness in my whole body.
And then there was smoke and it was dust that I'd become once more.
Don't kiss train wrecks.

Doesn't it make you feel silly?
The way that love can make you teach a grown man about the way his eyes stump you every single time and oh, God!
Remember that time I tried to tear out the thorns in your side
and wear them as my own
even though I knew better
than to walk around bearing someone else's pain?
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I cannot help but think, It must be terribly unnerving to be cared for by a poet. To think of all the times they stay up late writing metaphors for your skin.

We were out on the town one day
when momma asked me why I wanted to go
I told her there's just no breathing space
And I don't think she understood
because she brought me home
and opened the windows
When she should have
barred them shut.