you asked her to stay
but in return you heard a howl
you looked up and there she was
eternally fleeting
perpetually out of grasp
for you were an anchor and she was a kite
she wouldnt stay but she always came back
for she is the wind
and you the earth.

Do not fall in love with a poet.
She will feed you galaxies
until you fall sick in her brown eyes.
Then, she'll steal the stars from your breaths,
pin them proudly to her chest,
and claim that she's the night.

And soon you'll miss blue skies,
and summer highlights in her curls.
And she'll ramble in her sleep,
say things she doesn't mean,
and write poems about
how she could never be the right girl.

But, when you think you've had enough,
her words will somehow pull you right back.
Because despite her moonlit dreams,
she's just what you need,
to fill up lonely blue lines
about all the things you lack.

Who are you when you've lost
Everything that made you, you?
When your old skin is tossed
Leaving you vulnerable and new
But inside you are is an empty husk
Darkness keeping you from falling apart
Lost sight of who you were at dusk
How will you fill this empty heart?

I’ll tell you a story
That wanders all lands; about a poet
He goes by Ron an ordinary name
But this is not just any old Ron
This is THE Don Juan of all the Rons

He crafts Savory words
His methods arcane
Each ingredient withdrawn
From the mountain’s vein

These words are concocted and
Arranged just so that an optic banquet
Has been prepared
For you to behold

A feast for the eye, heart, and mind
An ambrosic delicacy
Of the most Savory kind

why is it
that when he finally caved
i was no longer in love with
his hands,

why is it
that when he told me he loved me
i was already bored of
his words,

why is it
that when he kissed my collarbone
i didn't crave
his fingertips on my skin.

i should be in love
with this boy who
gave himself to me,
yet here i am,
giving him another excuse
to why i can't be there.

why is it
that i love the chase and
not the boy.

I was the one who swallowed the sun
and yet it is your touch that burns
on to my skin like an insignia of shame;
halos of quiet desperation,
a footprint on the welcome mat to our own
little hell.

So the next time you cry for your skin,
remember
I scar for you.