This journal,
Like a home,
Four years
in the womb.
I despise
What you hold
But I'm glad
You took it
from my hands.

I am the bravery of someone desperate enough to love,
I am its strongest, most willing soldier.
I will grab the mountains and skies,
I will paint you and write you and cherish you.
And them, too.
Can you take all of me?
Can you survive without me.

that is what you are
with your hands on fire
and my back burned to a crisp
and the soft breaths you let out
like a warning
that you are hungry for more
i know it, glutton,
you and the teeth of your fingers
i feel their want,
and still i fake sleeping.
I'm afraid, sweet one,
I'm afraid.

we are friends,
and I'm so afraid of getting into your bed again.

maybe I should've read more about love,
to understand its meaning.
maybe I should've told you from the start,
maybe I should've heard your part.

I see your body and its changes, the way your skin had to stretch, bend a little,
There's roundness in places I didnt want to touch so bad before and
I think the beauty it holds makes my hands grow hearts too.

I find you so beautiful that the words slip out in cornerstores, in goodbye hugs,
In fingers lingering for a little too many times in the
Crooks of your elbows where your skin is softer,
In the plumpness of your sides,
In your own very pretty hands.

I wanna ask if I can keep you in my arms a little tighter, a little longer.
But the world's still a witness and I get shy under its gaze,
Forgive me for now.

In the grand scheme of things, I just want to be touched
In a way that is meaningful,

I fear being witness to the ghosts who lie in the hands of others,
When they are so close to mine but not close enough yet,

In the moments where I imagine
What I could be doing
Instead of doing it.

In the small schemes of things, I just want to be taken care of in a lovely way,
Craddle me, precious,
Wash my hair,
Caress my arms and
Let us not be afraid.