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.