put me between your teeth,
set fire to my soul.
i am naked underneath,
you are in control.

i taste like ash and tar,
an addict's take on dopamine.
nothing more than a cigar,
your own little nicotine.

pick me, i say
as your hands stray around my stem.

pick me, i urge
as your fists close around my being.

pick me, i ask
when you suddenly pause.

pick me, i scream
as you walk to the flower by the fence.

pick me, i cry
when i see you take her home.

don't pick me, i think
when i feel other fingers caress me.

pick me, i beg
the next time i see you.

pick me, and i swear
i will flourish and put all the other flowers to shame.

words can be numb,
they may cause you pain.

but the poet who writes them,
does not suffer in vain.

where does the poet go,
when everything is right?

where does the poet go,
when there are no words left to write?

sunny day,
oh, sunny day,
where have you been?

sunny day,
oh, sunny day,
won't you stay with me?

lend me your golden rays,
please spare me light.
illuminate my darker days,
and again make me bright.

sunny day,
oh, sunny day,
i'm so glad you're here.

sunny day,
oh, sunny day,
now you're mine, my dear.

You were working weekdays and I was busy with school, so we made weekends our time.

We were inseparable, you and I. Two sides of the same coin. We would count down the days until Friday just because we could. We’d finally meet after five, horribly boring days and see each other face to face rather than via snapchat filters and goodnight-texts.

We would stay up all night just to get all the time we possibly could with each other. And when we finally would fall asleep it’d be entangled in each other’s arms, because not even sleep could do us apart.

We could drink ourselves silly if we wanted to, dancing in that god-awful apartment of yours that we both still loved and held so dearly.

Then, out of the blue, your feelings faded and the music stopped.

Now I drink wine on Wednesdays, forever left to wonder if you have a new girl in your apartment, doing our things on the weekends.

I write,

not with a keyboard or
even an old-fashioned typewriter;
but with a quill
dipped in my blood.

What a lovely shade crimson is,
against rice-white paper.