Seeker of Secrets

Harsh lines mar his face

and cruel words spit from his lips

with no intention of healing.

But I have found kindness among the unkind.

 

Her eyes are cold and calculating,

she sneers at the misery of others,

harsh rejections in every breath she takes.

But I have found safety in the unsafe.

 

Skin bruised in yellow and purples,

her voice tremulous, like the blues,

eyes search every action for inevitable violence,

ears attuned to the slightest increase in pitch,

a warning for oncoming verbal slashes.

I have found love in the unloved.

 

I seek their secrets

like an addiction to be fed.

The slightest compassion in the cruel, stiff lip,

the hidden scars under his sleeves,

the quiet sobs hidden in the corner

of the loudest laugh.

I seek their secrets,

and I keep them hidden

behind my own laughs,

and in my own lips.

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The Trees Witness

A line between rows of green,

a road of modernity divides Romance

in two, separates the dead

from the living.

 

The flames erupted like fireworks,

spontaneous and sparking–

the sky alight.

Billowing clouds of gray toxicity flood

the air

as the red orange waves

engulf all that is alive.

 

Oxygen is swallowed lustfully

by the vibrant colors crawling

in the path of burning alive.

Life turns brown and flakes

of their screaming singing skin

flutters on the howling wind.

 

The trees witness their fellows

as they are devoured by the angry screams

of fire.

They watch their kind scream and writhe

in the path of hell.

 

I watched, very much the same,

as your veins pulsated,

your thin eyelids closed,

(shuttering bright blue skies)

and your breath crackled.

Fingers tensed under you,

toes curled and neck arched,

your breaths coming in gasps, now.

 

But unlike those living trees witnessing death,

I was witnessing a smaller one.

And I hope I suffocate,

before I let you choke.

 

Intangible

I like to reach for things

I can never hold.

Like,

the feeling when you’re speeding

down the interstate

with your hand out the window

(it’s an airplane,)

spreading and closing fingers

around air as if you

can capture it.

 

But the breeze slips through the gaps

of your fingers,

no matter how tight you clench them.

Much like smiles fade before long,

and memories even before that.

Beauty fades at the same rate

as love.

Concrete feelings float by on the wind

and between your fingertips

until they pop,

like balloons rubbing

the crackle ceiling.

 

Fading

Your lips touch my wrist

and leave a tingle trail

up to my lips.

Butterflies spring forth, pale

skin next to mine shifts

with each breath.

 

Angel kissed cheeks

seem to glow in the dark.

 

But his light burns brightest

when his anger shines

and burns, the slightest

tremor rides my spine.

 

With every word, I counter

with two.

With every scream, I answer

with mute.

 

The object of his ire

soon evaporates like water,

leaving him wordless. Tired.

Nothing conveys what really matters

better than a simple silence

after a hurricane.

Warning

Your eyes crinkle like candy wrappers

whenever you smile.

Bright blue shines through soulful windows,

a line of wheat colored lashes stutter.

Candy apple lips curve in a half diamond.

 

Tattoos mark your exterior,

but I’ve marked your organs

burned my way through your veins

until I reached the epicenter of your essence.

My love is simply muscle memory.

 

Your breath is my favorite song,

your heartbeat–the best lullaby.

But don’t be fooled by pretty words,

I’m not like other girls.

My love is like a natural disaster,

it’s addictive, has you swinging from rafters.

 

My wrath is like a tsunami,

I forgive, but don’t forget easy

and if I’ve been wronged, I’ll tear you apart,

carve myself out of your heart

and no gold or honey could ever

stick you back together.

Ars Poetica

Somedays I can’t speak.
The words shrivel up in my throat
and my lips shut tight.
But they are there.
Racing through my synapses,
playing tag behind my eyes.

I see letters, jumbled and
heart wrenchingly lonely.
They need to be solid,
not just volleyed breaths.
But am I solid?
Am I worth more than a glance?

Thoughts are beautiful,
but I’m not.
Words can sing,
I sound like a drowning cat.
Letters fly and tumble like acrobats.
I’d rather not.

But there’s no denying
that sense of peace that
your fingers register,
and it travels to your brain,
as your eyes fasten their sights
on the tip of lead touching paper.

The scritch-scratch of loops
and cursives on something pristine.
The way the wind rustles and
crinkles a leaflet.
I won’t stop indulging
in my favorite vice.

Oranges

My yellow, bruised rinds

are peeled and opened.

Displayed like a flower,

if one cares to look.

Past the bruises and crescent moons

of those who touched but didn’t care

to split me open, work me out.

Reveal the sweetness that was covered by tough skin

and a tangy stare.

 

Sweet fruit revealed to patience.

A taste that will never flee your mouth.

A scent that can drive you mad,

but only if you let it.

You mistook my bruises for rot.

They’re not.

They were made by people like you.

 

People who have learned to judge by feel.

Picking us up and holding us in the light.

Examining every flaw, picking you apart

just to see you shrivel

and shrink.

 

Don’t.

 

You are more than your exterior.

Beneath your bumpy skin, your cold shell,

lies the most addictive drug they haven’t learned

to taste yet.