"viscerally" poems
Donald Trump's presidency
Is one of the greatest achievements in art I have ever experienced
And Trump is a true artist
He takes words from the page
Like corruption, disenfranchisement, xenophobia
And brings them to life
Highlighting fear and paranoia so clearly
Contrasting the blacks and whites
Emphasizing anger
While reminding us we're mere infants
In the digital age
And warning us of our seniority
And capitalism's
We all like to think life has meaning
Until we hit an animal with our car
Then that's just the way things are
And I'm staring at an absurdist painting
Of a child driving a car
Through a herd of sheep
As I watch a heist film
Where the robbers turn their guns over
To the mentally unstable guy in the group
Trump is a national artist
Placing riots on the map
And drawing infernos on the Internet
His art forces an opinion
Everybody has something to say about him
And it's all true
Even the pages he ripped from his own cabinet
Tried to villainize him in their script
But he was already an anti-hero
The humor is that the mud slung onto him
Is dirt kicked up from his own tires
I guess if you surround yourself with hateful people
You're surrounding yourself with people who probably hate you
Trump's art is deeply conflicting
He reminds me of the people who want me to live in shame
Yet he embodies the individuality that separates me from that shame
His insecurities remind me of myself
High school is the White House in the eyes of a kid
And I had secrets I wanted to share
But felt I couldn't
I learned things
That changed my entire perspective
And didn't think people would understand
Afraid of being assaulted for my indiscretions
I hid behind a boisterous personality
And a nonchalant attitude
Trump's art evokes sympathy and hatred that feels so strong
When he holds a mirror defining our worst qualities
To a man viscerally opposed to his own reflection
The confliction of emotions
Is the hallmark of great art
We are all artists
The lines we write or the strokes we brush
Are in our actions
And Trump's canvas displays
A life filled with accomplishment
Inspiring me to live my own life
But I still wake up in cold sweats
From the American dream
That anybody can be president
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
my future partner,
Hi, I’m anna. I guess we’re co-writing this chapter of our lives together. I’m sure it’ll be epic. It takes a while for me to viscerally latch onto another being, so congrats to you for stealing my heart
because if I’m with you, that probably means I really love you.
I like sushi a lot, empty bookstores, and tea sipping sessions with my cat, xiaoxiao, who you will probably hear me talk about twenty-four seven. I hope you’re a cat person.
Within the realm of the arts, I like to write poetry and play piano. But my secret hobby is photography. It’s the best way to know someone without really knowing them. And if you hurt me, I’ll probably create an entire musical composition or a playlist of poetry about it. But I’ll forgive you instantly.
I might make mistakes, too. For instance, I’m horrible with directions, remembering events, deadlines, or anything unrelated to pedantic learning. My erratic and changeable moods can be quite the predicament as well, but I promise to be as tolerable as I can be through my storms.
I’m a biomedical science major with a minor in neuroscience. Assimilating an array of medical innovations, education, and terminology is, personally, my zenith of academic interest. I have a love and longing to help others. But sometimes, moving towards this ultimate vocation is strenuous and I do hope you understand how much medicine means to me. This means late night MCAT study sessions, mountains of neuroscience books, stacks of terminology notecards, homework, and paramounts of stress.
But I want to work on that. I promise that whatever I love, I love to a seemingly boundless depth- “from the tip of my apex and beyond,” if you’re into medical puns. I promise I’ll take you out to dinner, plan cute dates, and spend as much quality time with you as I can. I promise, we’ll travel to so many places, eat all the food we can in all the countries we visit, dive in every ocean we can find, and fly over every country we can point to on a map.
Most importantly, I promise to give you reasons to continue the chapters in your book. Because I struggle with that too.
Whether it be in a month, a year, a decade, or a lifetime...
I promise to love you, see you soon
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
she was the first
to act as though
she wanted to be my beretta,
to hold a holster to my thigh
and accept the badge
of partner in crime.
she spoke without shelter.
pool days of marination
in monsters and taurus,
a kiss for pity
as i'd yet to be corrupted,
and she stole some joy
in taking what wasn't hers.
she was bigger than me.
she showed me
how shattered touch screens
can look like dried petals,
but cut like cold *******
and when you're in a field of dandelions
how they come in handy.
she wrote the book on flagellation.
she promised it was all for me;
calloused fingertips from
loving me with lighter fluid,
scratches for feral adoration,
and the damocles' above my head
or rather hers, and hers to drop on a whim.
she wrote a chapter on manipulation.
i wasn't ready the first time
she pushed passed denim
and plaid as easily
as she waived my concern,
nor the second --
nor the third.
she had daddy issues.
i still didn't know
how tampons worked,
or vaginas for that matter,
and so to be forcefully
and viscerally introduced to both
behind a tree in Henessey
****** up my brain a little.
she called it "mad week."
ear bud cables
became garrotes
around my neck
in the suspended
movement of a pulse
through my aorta;
and as every day with her,
i felt she crossed a line,
and as every day before,
i never called foul.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 2:07 AM UTC
My father was born in an outport community of 2000
On the Avalon peninsula of Newfoundland
Around 1950, to a school headmaster and a homemaker
Attended Memorial University of Newfoundland (as did I)
Studied English, and eventually Education
He was a brilliant man, often quiet for long periods of time,
Then viscerally eloquent like Occam's Razor when he spoke
Remember him telling me how "taking their maidenheads"
From Romeo and Juliet act one, was about taking virginity
Always had an answer for my million questions
Rarely lost his temper
Taught me to accept others as they were, and to resist the temptation
To judge
A spiritual man, not religious, always taking care to differentiate the two
Without him I would never have access
To the home library in our den, my muse
Or all the gruesome movies he shouldn't have let me watch
Without my father I wouldn't know that
I like Jack Daniel's on the rocks with afternoon paper or
A Farewell to Arms with Spanish Rioja from earthenware cups,
Like Hemingway drank during the Spanish Civil War
I would not have wallowed with the downtrodden and the vilified
I would not have seen the base human weakness
The fundamental vulnerability that dwells within all of us
Had I not seen it in him first
Some four years ago, my father experienced weakness on one side
While on vacation in Europe
Flew back to Canada, diagnosed quickly with brain cancer
By the time I spoke to him, his mind was already rapidly fading
The spark of brilliance snuffed out like so much wick and wax
Died 6 months later in his sleep
We spread his ashes on his father's grave
And in the Bay St. George
Taught me what and how to believe,
Who to be
For better or for worse
Taught me how to ask the right questions
Showed me the books to read
Let me know it was OK
To be me
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
*"More squirrels"
She exclaims
And I wonder what
In the world
Could it be
This particular time!?*
It usually starts like this...
Every once in a while
I find her
Lost
In her own thoughts
Gazing
At nothing in particular
But everything
At once.
At times
Like these
She is a genius
Gone crazy.
I catch a glimpse
Of those star-bound eyes
And try
To guess
The stride
Of her imagination
Without
Much luck.
Could she be thinking about…
A universe made entirely out of glass?
Why humans don’t have a tail
Anymore?
Reasons behind love at first sight?
Or what to name the 3rd butterfly
She saw today?
In her picture perfect
Stillness
I can viscerally sense
A divine flow
Of thoughts
And it evokes in me
The wonder
That one experiences
While watching
A calm river flow
Knowing
Turbulent currents
Are ever present
Just hidden
Deep inside.
If I
Shake her vigorously
I know for sure
At least 23 ideas
And 47 musings
Will fall around
And we will
laugh hilariously.
But I dare not
For the fear
Of my life.
She is an artist
Painting
With her imagination
And you
Don't disturb artists
Do you?
Once she’s back
To the material realm
She comments
Randomly
About how we need
More squirrels
In the world.
I almost always
Immediately concur.
Then slowly ask
“why?”.
She gives me
One of those looks.
Like the ones
You give your dog
When it’s looking
At you eating food
And you’re deciding
If you should
Give it a small bit
Or not.
If I am
persistent enough
She gathers
All her thoughts
And illustrates
With one of the most
Amazing stories
The important role
Of squirrels
To save our
Doomed world.
After listening
To her
Seemingly logical
And
Completely weird
Stories
I nod obediently
Then carefully
Check
If her coffee
Has something mixed in it.
The gesture
Makes her
Burst out in laughter
Every single time.
And we repeat this
Day after day
Night after night.
I'm so used to it
That now
Even if I hear
"Cement flowers"
"popcorn candies"
Or
"balloon bullets"
I am mentally prepared
To understand
The story
Behind all of it.
That’s how it is.
She keeps daydreaming
About stuff
And I keep dreaming
about her.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
it's how much i want you
how much i need you next to me
on top of me, under me
or touching me
in any possible which way
it's how much
i crave to taste you
to have your flavor
upon my devilish lips
my saliva dripping
from salacious skin
it's how much
i yearn to hear you
either in conversation
or releasing impassioned moans
breathing heavily
in sync with me
breathing sound sleep
or just… breathing
it's how much i desire
to smell like you
as our bodies ephemerally swirl
to stifle scarlet passions
to awaken a fervid lust
for symphonic sighs
as i free the melodies
by striking your chorus
with my benevolent baton
it's how much i wish
to gaze upon a silhouette
radiating sultriness
as it loses itself
viscerally against me
it's how much i ache
for your ravishing kiss
it's how much
i'm already addicted
to it
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
I'm afraid that if I die
People wont know things only I know
Like how N likes their carrots
Or how L loves her dad
Only I know this, like this
Of course others know some of this too, some of the time
But no one
Not one single person knows that you
You two
Are perfect
I mean this literally
I was gifted this knowledge when you were born
I know this viscerally, like this.
Or that you're beautiful in ways that make me hate words
In ways that render language hollow, meaningless, obscene
I am not being dramatic.
And also that you are good
By which I mean loveable
Like very and always
Fundamentally, inherently
This is not something you can ever change even though you'll probably try
And you might convince other people
Maybe even your dad, or your therapist, or your lover, or yourself
But you'll never convince me
I don't know why
I just know this
And I need you to know this too
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 12:53 AM UTC
Love poetry is not about
The joining of man and woman-
****** or otherwise.
That is too simple for love poetry.
It’s about separation
Longing for
Searching and waiting.
In the longing lies the divine.
In desire is faith-
Reaching for something
You know is there
Reaching back for you
Like a hopeful horizon,
No proof that her arms are
Outstretched towards you.
But you feel it,
Know it somehow,
Viscerally,
Can’t help but know it
In a way that others don’t
And never will.
The faith of reciprocation.
You are special for having been
Touched
By this beautiful agony.
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
i’d scrub it; really, i would,
but i don’t want to get the dirt
on my hands.
it exists: the dirt.
on the floor and the walls
and the bottom of my wardrobe.
i hate the mess
but i hate cleaning it even more;
knowing it’s there, putting my hands
in it. the dirt—god, it’s everywhere.
it takes courage to clean.
it takes a hell of a lot of work
to make it go away
when it wasn’t designed to.
it feels like i’ll never be clean.
i could kiss the palms of lady macbeth
and feel like doubting thomas,
but my lips don’t want it.
my body doesn’t want it, viscerally
rejects it, and it exists.
nobody asks: did the whale really want to swallow jonah?
there’s dirt everywhere
and i am not clean.
maybe i won’t ever be clean
until i am no longer lazy and afraid.
i, coward designed, am lazy and afraid.
and so i let it settle. i’ll let it
settle like pompeii, and vow never
to visit ancient rome.
i don’t like ash, either.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 12:24 AM UTC
Atop the frail ego she mounts her merciless machine gun with which she mows down any speckle of personality that dares flicker amongst her immediate surroundings, until only her presence alone can remain untarnished and unfettered by sadistic, sardonically summarized ridicule, luminous and majestically radiating with solitary supremacy. Oh, the splendorous grandeur of self-indicted superiority, the rush of power and authority from diminishing another's essence with ruthless categorical association, the incomparable ecstasy of using their own positive attributes as their rudimentary flaws. Viscerally volatile, the cocking of the mocking gun's hammer is to be recognized as the phrase "You're just trying to be______". This is critical, for all too well she knows to a certainty that at the most essential level, one is only simply trying to be. And when you attack a person's will to try, their will to be, then you are taking aim at the one vital aspect of their existence which they hold any discernible dominion over: their character. The slaying is heinous and orgasmically fulfilling, for how can the perennial, separatist worship of Self be indulged in among so many of these "others"? But oh how exhausting it must be, the perpetually cyclic nature of the task. How can she ***** a light that doesn't exude from a distant source, but is a brother beam of the source they share? How does she extinguish the reflection of a flame off the water? Like fireflies on summer nights they disappear only to reappear again, somewhere else, reminding her of the irrevocable, irreducible power of being born and reborn again in the new moment. The self-aware ******** audacious enough to love themselves. How much of it do they really think they can withstand?
Reload.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
Pretend to me, like a clown/actor, to be strong and violent. You fight like mothers ease their children into sleep, begging and praying. The fight in you is a cartoon predator selling candy to stoners. I never considered myself someone to contemplate the legitimacy of strangers, but I don't know you or your motives.
I don't know you.
I love like a hawk tears into a sparrow.
Viscerally, yet naturally.
Savagely.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 12:26 AM UTC
Man goes through his existence walking on the edge of nothingness, while his bones are cracking viscerally; his humiliation from slave to slave is now constantly ripening, since he has long been the petty plaything of worms and maggots. Now he would rather practice walking in place a little more stubbornly, the tactics of the guest-passenger, stripped to the bone, are straining against each other, a writhing swarm of beetles is stopping his running, because a rubbing interest would decimate, lick the big whole, from which the average person certainly gets less.
Belittled, low-lying ants fight in a noisy concert quite often, because whoever begs for a warning, calls for help or hopes is now a suspect element; This current vile Age plants dust-scattering arguments in the ranks of corruptible souls, because everything and everyone is accompanied by the fever of possession for a lifetime, the depths of the underworldly filth often disgust even those who try to tolerate the filth.
In tendered dog nests, they would tender the juicy marrow bone, which the average person can never receive, and cannot win, as some kind of deserved, simplified honorarium, or pleasing compensation, rootlessly, to the detriment of life and other accounts, and a few hearty slaps are due to those who speak up and humble themselves for remaining European and human.
And while the canings are increasing in number, they immediately **** off the homeless who are begging and begging, they have to struggle sleeplessly, like a miserable ***** with the uncertain hurricane tide raging to the point of unknown, with storks' nests, not just a whistling nickel samovar that will last another hundred years - but a century of nuclear mushroom clouds!
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 12:22 AM UTC
so exciting, so fascinating, so
wholly fulfilling, so viscerally
gratifying to
think, to think deeply, to ponder
the delicate prism of our reality
and its' infinite possibilities
that one is left
giddy
Feb 25, 2024
Feb 25, 2024 at 4:11 PM UTC
Can not distinguish my breaths
Why I take in these threats
That takes grasp
Of my fair air
That clears my internal affairs
And though it seems my anguish
Is lost to the polished scheme
I have ingrained within my eyes
I am reminded again and again
In abstract I contract a line
That fools the absolute
To the Fin
Only finding the rules dilute
To a drinker of truth
Facing the sky
With the clouded justification
To find association
In the tone
Of the polarities
Sincerities
To merge into
Middle linear ties
Overtaken by java sages
Virally programmed by ages
Of systematic impulses,
All false
The need, strength, and balance
Is a mediator
That is an open instigator
Over and moved closer
Holding on
I might lose her
Not in my own right,
Of emotional plight
But a fight fought long
Within each song
Fused for this muse
Doing wrong to my mind
All along, is this poet wrong?
Have I exposed it all?
That there is nothing left
To transpose to proses
Or is this a step
I have yet to step on to
These words these mere
Entendres in parallel to
My daily tears for fears
Vice viscerally seared
Repeatedly, incessantly
To attempt to understand
That Socratic it is, to withstand
The frantic resolve, to accept
That there is something
In nothing
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 12:17 PM UTC
a lifetime of gestation;
of making myself,
of bringing myself
back from you,
of trying to get over someone I was
only ever under.
bend me, shape me
whichever way you’d like me
for I could be the apple of your eye if only you’d
let me;
- kiss me to
pulp
you turned me inside out,
naked,
viscerally
exposed -
heart beating tenderly not upon my sleeve but
atop my inverted chest;
I asked you to cradle it,
care
swat me like a fly;
a throwaway affair.
saying you care about ‘this’,
but not me, I think
lacklustre lover lacking the
love in the
- making
and above all, I keep thinking about how unrequited love
is the sweetest kind of self-inflicted wound.
something that never was shouldn’t be so much,
oh but it hurts just right.
I’m forever pulling cells,
bits of myself apart to
examine, deconstruct.
cytoplasmic, holding it all together,
I'm just looking at your scars, you said.
would you like to add another?
suture me then pick me apart
- I’d let you.
It's not your fault you didn't
know, don't
know how I feel, not really;
I don't want you to run
better to have a piece of you than
none.
we only do this to ourselves,
I don't blame you.
this mouth tastes like an ashtray
I'm sorry,
it’s just that a lot of sweet nothings have died and
burnt away in here before they could be said.
everything changes yet it all stays the same
we know how this story goes,
so please don't tell me I'm
beautiful from all angles
because I can’t take it. I can’t.
rising for him, a flowerbed for the spring
blush as pink, which,
bleeding into the edge of the skyline at sunset,
anamorphic, consumes.
[HE LOVES ME HE LOVES ME NOT
HE LOVES ME HE LOVES ME NOT]
my heart is so heavy
with the ways in which I love you
quickening,
the birth of something new -
or maybe I just have a penchant for self-destruction.
and on getting out alive:
we’re all here,
doctoring our hearts,
recovering from the cataclysm of it all.
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 3:14 PM UTC
in the sweeping sepia tones of my monotonous,
rushed life, my chest aches to be sprung free.
the urge of flight has never been more viscerally real,
more capable of pinning me to the spot
until my very bones burst from this body bag
suffocating my chest. never have i felt
so wickedly sick, so obviously the cliche
broken fragile thing bleeding out all over the page.
never have i felt so devoid of words.
it's like before, i was full - brimming with half-thought
ideas and plots and characters, thrumming with
elementary concepts and words but at least i was flooded,
at least my soul was alive.
with the pain came a different flood, a tidal wave in the dead of
night, a cool soaking of the wicked flames that etch in
the monster's shadows. with a muse came my best
works, my raging thoughts, my torment and despair
and bloodthirsty butterflies battering my guts. with
the depression came the rawness that they lapped up,
crowed about, choked back tears. with another muse, i found
desire and passion and lust in the sinful tonguelipsteeth,
the bony handshipsframe. with all these things i found
the words and found a freedom, however temporary.
with change, i found an empty cavern.
the bottom of the grand canyon, less spectacular up close than from the top. less than. empty. hollowed out.
there is before the fall, there is during. they don't talk about the after.
or rather, they do, but there's aftermath - there's cracks and broken
bones and heaving chests and blood gushing, rushing
to the surface to see the light of day.
i bled out before i hit the ground. what happens when you get
the perfect ten, when you land with ease? what happens
when the potential is there, but the words dry up?
i feel potential in the moments wasted,
the beauty in all the strangeness,
the agony of existence. i see the people and
i want to be their storytellers, their cartographers,
their artist. i want them all as my muses.
i collect them and name them and tuck them away
in pockets too full of secrets, putting them aside for tomorrow,
another day, when i get back to the room but find
myself drowning out my words in other worlds.
i know the potential like the sailor knows the seas.
i see the beauty like the diamond in the rough.
i feel the agony in every second like the swish of
the guillotine.
swish. swish. swish.
out of time, out of mind
existence was a phase; here is the end
of our glory days.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
two paradoxical hearts beat at viscerally harmonious paces. the shadows we casted in the light of street lamps disfigure our souls into something i can't recognize. the enemy's collusion called for us at the door with temptation in a cage by its side. i heard the junction of our memoirs echo our surreal revival in the crepuscular night, luring us against the enemy's acrimony. though we were trapped in a dome of hiraeth, we found home laying within each other's hearts
and suddenly the dichotomy between us morphed into an alchemy i knew all too well.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 12:22 AM UTC
If I could only express
how fiercely and viscerally
I long to be loved —
Oh, but I have
and it ended badly
and I still have the scars on my
wrists and ribs.
Loneliness is a
cruel and cutting thing.
And I only wish
that I had not
sharpened the blade myself.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
the confucianistic rigidity
makes for fixed form madness, viscerally
as bounded by lines drawn laterally
meters and syllables the oddity
birthed by unquestioning insanity
fall in ! a yearning to break this, slowly
quixotic paradox moulded holy
sacrosanct dogma sheds humility
the key is to break the lock dead, for it
speaks for no one but shapeless abuses
mystery history ; resolution
to uwu or to chirp like a great ***
is lit, for ignorance of the misses
marks this to render perfect rendition
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
it is in dove's ways how i love you
and it is no common sight
to take glory out of what this
life ever so defiles with its
uncouth hands.
in the way that i soar with my
unnameable wings over your
territories finding shade,
clinging with the wind, my mothered world in the eclipse of a day's turning - where together with the fleshly rivulets i am unafraid
to trample the night with lithe sound: a wing's flutter echoes
through the caves of your mouth deepening in primeval silence. stones woven earthly, intricate as a bed of mendaciloquence where truth lies stripped to the bone of the very voice of it. oh and what solace waits for me yonder hills that recognize my stretch - even the shadows rejoice in their fill of my passing elegies yet, no love
shall die! night arrives drowsily over these planes that seek me, and i cascade as gentle as a pond girdling your ample fish that i viscerally own, thriving inside me, whirling in graceful fire.
the morning takes me with you,
its duty speaks where i was once
sterile without path - you take mine flight and hover past everything, spreading garlands that would name all of them, ours!
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 2:14 AM UTC
I see your name everywhere
in books
on television screens
in user names
on Facebook posts
I hear it in advertisements
for ******* toilet paper
I hear it on the street
from a random passerby
some happen to have your name
a lot of people happen to have your name
your name isn't popular
not overall though in this country
it's fallen on sharp decline since its inception
I read it on a graph...out of curiosity
your name is imprinted in my mind
i've said it so much, i've written it so much
it's automatically a suggestion on my phone
whenever I compose a message, there's your name
whenever I go to sleep, there's your name
floating viscerally in the darkness
flickering behind my eyelids
flickering in the inky nothingness
I know the shape of it in my mouth
I know the feel of it behind my teeth
on the roof of my mouth
in my throat
*
i've shouted it to you
i've moaned it to you
i've screamed it to you
i've screamed it raw and wild into the air
i've screamed it into pillows
your pillows
hotel pillows
my pillows
your name
imprinted on fabric
imprinted on air
imprinted behind my eyelids
your name
appearing everywhere
appearing cosmically
appearing universally
i ******* hate it
i ******* love you
i ******* hate your name
your name
fracturing my everything
Oct 14, 2017
Oct 14, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
I retract like a mollusk receding into it’s shell.
I think of the way I could simply just tilt my head back out of the passenger seat window
he drove,
moving through songs that meant the same to us.
I tickle the sand between my toes
slowly into the water while it wades around my knees,
how I could wrap my hands around his neck
just stand there while the world moved around us.
I find the trajectory of the mania, the nights where I just tried to lay as still as possible, not breathing too heavy or looking him in the eyes. How triggering it could have become if I would have
crossed my arms, sat up, or spoke.
I think of how the smoke enveloped most of our time together
blurring our vision
clouding our minds
viscerally
I didn’t need to see much further than his skin
I didn’t need to look over his shoulder
Just closed my eyes and soaked it all in.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
She is radiant. Like sunshine
Lemon-yellow, summer sky, too-wide smile beaming into my ribs
Newfound confidence burning it's way out of her bones
Boiling over into her laugh.
I love the way her fingers tip-tap on the tabletop,
Skittering away from me, my heart in her hands and
Here I am not caring if she drops it because
Her fingerprints will stay.
I gave her my dress because she didn't have one.
I watched her put it on and
Felt the pang of envy that it never hugged my hips like that
She looked in the mirror and gasped with the realization that she is
Beautiful - her reaction so viscerally alive and moving that
I stared unabashed, in awe at her and blushed when she caught my eye
I told her it was just because I was glad she liked the dress.
And she believed me.
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC