There was a girl lying on the floor,
she was covered in blood,
her skin sliced by his blades.

There was a girl lying on the floor,
she was covered in bruises,
her skin tarnished by his fists.

There was a girl lying on the floor,
dead and ruined.

She was ruined by what she thought was love,
and killed, by the man she thought loved her.

but he didn’t love her, he loved his canvases.

Even though you could feel it
                     fathomless than your soul.

We glimmered into each other's lagoons,
            and for that finite moment we
swam within the moment of the
   past,
          future,


present.

That even though you were
                bleeding out, we knew that
we were one the blade, you, me


                          us.....

I didn't pull it out,
as I knew id lose you.
               Instead, I shredded my shirt,
    collected it around the wound
that was never meant to be.

I was a killer of many dreams,
            but you were the reality that
awoke me to the possibility of u and me.

As u bled out we wrote a story of what was,
   could have been...

911 was our ring tone of love,

And the ambulance was the church bells
             of our blisful joyning.

When the investigation of our meeting was
                                                                ­    over.
We were together,
the scars of both united of us,
                                that we were meant to be.

But love has many sharp edges and we both
           had a blade under our pillows..

Sweet dreams were  balance on serrated edges

at the age of twenty-two i fell in love with the guy who can't pronounce my name, who only says i love you when he bites my lip (there are times that he forcibly opened my mouth and search for the dead poetries i buried 2 years ago).

at the age of twenty-four he asked me to undress myself while his eyes are stabbing my chest (i did and he stabbed me so deep that until now i can't get the blade off). he smashed my small body on the bed and abandoned after he found another poetry hiding in between my legs (i picked myself up after he left).

at the age of twenty-five he asked me to give every poetry blooming inside of me (but what can i offer if i'm alone with typos and errors?)

at the age of thirty i'm nothing but a cover page (no, i'm not a poetry book after the reader ripped off my pages).

With grace she doused
Her hair in fuel
And lit the flames
As a burning carousel

What will be
Never belongs to us
So, we treat what we have
So, carefully

I saw the first calf being born
how the cow licked its forehead
its eyes
its legs
I watched it have trouble standing up
then walk better and better
in search of the stable door
and licking my dad's hand on the threshold

I saw all this
when I was a child
and father did not know why I was crying

but I caught a glimpse of it
(I only tell you now, daddy)
in the blade of the knife
you used to cut the umbilical cord

and as it flowed
the blood knew it would be touching that blade
one last time

I am addicted to
rough *** and masochism.

I used to be addicted
to self-harm.

I learned to live without the feeling
of a blade against my skin,

but now I need the feeling
of warm hands against my skin
where my blade used to be.

I'm not recovering.
I'm still hurting myself.
all that changed is the weapon
that I choose to do it with.

The lush green blades,
pierced me with shades
of heaven, as they swayed
in the wind. I stayed
to see their dance,
and with every glance,
my heart rejoiced
as they carried on, poised.