I have learnt how to navigate life without your palm in mine.

I am healthy
And prosperous.
I am fine

I have learnt to move forward without your map
And learnt to look forward to a ceremony you won’t be at.

I am fine
Truly,
…

Just don’t show up at my wedding
…

I will write happy poetry when i experience it
But until then
And since the day i held my very first pen,
I have only known what blood tastes like
On paper.

Tonight
My candles are bleeding tears
Under blue flames
Their eyes will close on another man
Taking off my veil.

Tonight
I have to let go of your ghost

Tonight
My drawer will be closed

Squeezing my eyes shut to stop my seas
From ruining the powder on my cheeks
With barely stable fingers.

I have always looked the other way of marriage

White dresses and ringing bells,
Down the aisle of an eternal felicità
They tell us
When we turn ten
Something to celebrate

Not every marriage is a happy one.
Not every marriage is a love story.

But every love story,
Is a love story.

Whether it ends with a bow on his neck and a ring on her hand
Or with a scar that never quite dries.
Left to mourn
Unconfessed vows aching for an unreachable altar

It throbs eternally inside a drawer
Palpitating as if the wood will grow taller

A wound that keeps bleeding
What an aisle never had the chance

To witness

Dried teardrops from Last June
Printed on my summer dress

And maybe you will never be my idol
But your love was worthwhile

With the very first prayer the sun is whispering
In the funeral of a fading spring

I declare you my lover

Zipping up your mouth shut
Maybe i don’t want you to speak
Closing the windows
Maybe i don’t want you to leave
And maybe i don’t want to be a poet
And maybe i was never meant to be a poet
Maybe it is you that i seek

With every lustful poem braiding to my sins
With every tale i tell with my pens
with every devoting vow i embroider to a verse

My love is palpable
Your love awakens with a blooming heat

And maybe the scars are healing as we speak

To let you go means to stop writing
Maybe i don’t want to heal

The ache will fade along with ink
So i choose to cling
Further,
Into written confessions
And i choose to honor the first of June
Like a pearl of memory
I look down to
From the Coast of May

As peaches get less sour
The ice is melting off my chest

My Summer love is Sweet

Wrapped in the soft blanket of the moment

Regret awaits from across the room

At the very far corner rests guilt

That corner turns from blueberry to a whispering shade of red

The night walks on its tiptoes

Like a ripe fruit ready to be picked

But afraid to hurt the rose

I beg the window’s glass to postpone the light

But my dream fades

And my teeth cling to my erased lipstick

Your name still on the orbit of my tongue

As your amber scent turns to ember

Stuck in my windpipe

I gulp it down as I try to cough

It won’t budge

So won’t shame

I lament the youthful confessions of seventeen

And the anguish that harvested my implanted stars when I turned eighteen

Remorse slithers around me like earthworms

A pang of fear up my forearm

Shackles me to the brown ground of the room

The wood grows roots under my feet

A tree with no head

No branches for my leaves

Just the trunk growing through me

The blanket burns under the flames

The wood applauses higher

As love dissolves its vows

Through the invading sunlight

And leaves the door open from behind

Sorrow registers then

The walls’ paint was lilies

Now they are red

My blood colors the walls, my shame tattoos my sins

On my nape

Then caresses my hair with sharp long nails and a black hand

Grey smoke follows the rhyme of agony

Resting between my pupils and my lashes

Fate closes the curtains

The remnants of amber slowly migrate from my nostrils

And sediment on the shelf of memory

I try to reach for it with the wood choking my wrists

I try to scream back at the echo of silence

Against the roof of closure

But the ember is still locked on my windpipe

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The only picture I have for us is the one in my memory. Hidden, arranged on my wildest shelves. I keep you warm there. We were barely a thing to keep photographs of each other, but I am sure I am not someone you can forget either. I picture you walking towards me, swaying with the angel of love and the god of devotion by your sides. I remember clearly, in my so vivid memory. Your poetic existence in this hollow world. I hope you never lost your spark.

I hope you never changed.

Souls like yours should never be condemned, even when the sorrowful mysteries of the ones we meet try their best to shred their starlight.

You were a free thinker, you loved me, and I didn't love myself. You loved me. You loved me with every electron in your soul. You were mine even when I never proceeded to claim you. I was selfish and lustful because my thoughts were not mine. My desire blindfolded my heart and stumbled through the buried treasures you had to offer.

But I never kneeled to dig through mud that turned into golden beach sand beneath me.

Your mud turned into golden beach sand for me.

You gave me a part of your beauty that no one was ever privileged to get access to.

You wrote poems and cried rivers.

You carved my name with bare fingers on an olive tree.

A pearl-studded crown i wore with dusty clothes on my flesh.

You drained an ocean and conserved the foam in a jar.

Drew sunflowers on the glass. And if I asked for your life, you would have butchered it and called it a loyalty ritual.

You were the yellow dim light the camera embraces in 50's movies. You were the poem, a poem that expressed me through their art and expressed their art through the sour shots of enthusiastic pleasure you drank from my cup of time. You created a version of me that is too poetic to be true.

Someone I have never met before.

I have never touched a soft heart like yours. You were too delicate; afraid to break you with my ruthlessness, I chose that I should get off on touching the skins instead of risking your purity in the den of my heart. I kept leaving after consuming you. And I knew how painful that was to you, but I couldn't forget about your laughter or the way you sewed one topic from another.

I loved you, but not more than my ego.

What should I have done?

Let go of the greed of lust to be with a true lover... You were the type of girl that cages a man and dominates his rage at the world. The patriarchy crawls at your feet.

You kissed the child in me.

I have never been more myself than in those fifteen minutes with you, and I know the sound of it from your coast, but girl, I have always kept a little pocket in my heart for the softer version of me, the one that didn't hold a judgment and neither received any.

Your touch was what revived the heartbeat

inside of this wrinkled heart.

But I think I was too concerned with how I looked to everyone around me. Didn't want them to see me crawling at your feet. You were out of my league; I think that's why I left you drowning in the seas, so that I don't feel like I am the only one humiliated here. I needed to humiliate you as much as I needed to get back some of my dignity. The one I lost in the air breeze that carried my burning desire to glamorize your dominance and your superiority and become nothing ...

But the soul that exists to please you.

I needed to fight it with my ego. I needed not to fall for it. A woman like you is not the one that would be amazed by me. I felt disrespected by all means. Even when I knew you loved me, I knew you desired me,

I knew I was your inferno and the throbbing vein.

I knew I was the man.

But you kept on denying it, and I was too arrogant to ask someone like you to be with me. Afraid of rejection,

because you were something else,

something more,

something I have never experienced before.

We were similar, born of a magnet, rejecting each other so closely. You weren't the one to decide to be with me even when your love was crawling at my feet. Even if your soul bled out of your eyes every time I left. You weren't the one who would disrespect herself for me and be with someone who cheats and lies, comes and leaves.

You were never something I could reach, or stand on my feet to be worthy of. I am a man with an oppressed inner child and a lot of patriarchal responsibilities. The ones based on the greed of lust and a useless ego that taught men to dehumanize themselves into machines that bury their emotions deep inside their boxers. Men with no clue on how to love, how to worship the creature standing before them.

Men with no idea

how to bow.

How to untangle myself from the patriarchy and crawl to you

Because that is all I ever wanted to do.

When you decided to leave me the way I kept leaving you,

but you never came back like I always do.

And now I would rather burn to ash than spend one more day without you.

And I pray to the Lord that you are still keeping a picture of me,

Hidden,

somewhere in the shelves of your memory.

Because, my lady, yes...

I love you too.

I love you too...

oh yes, my lover.

I loved you too.

Yours, sincerely.

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Thank you for reading, let me hear your thoughts and interpretation.

AN : Long comments are my favorite so don’t hold back 💋

It wasn't June nor December, these were victims of the broken heart. I lost you since February. You purchased another fate before the cherries blossom in my garden. Peeling me with one last glance, as if i am the delicate lacy skin of a cherry, taken off with slaughter hands.

I lost you to February's timid flowers. Yet to stretch their wings and point their hearts up to the sun. I lost you since February, I just kept throwing the blame on the vulnerable branches of December and june’s warm weather and cold waters. Wishing that i don't face the fact that i gave a chance to what should have been a closed case.

Dragging hope through the dirt.

A sparkle of a failed dream that should have been eaten by worms since February. But somewhere along the spring and the beach i forgot February's rain. I forgot the abandonment. I forgot how you didn't hesitate once after shutting your heart close.

Cutting mine open.

The basket once full of cherries falls to the ground. You take one in your hand and you dig your finger to the seed. Dripping it's sweetness all over my hand. You take another one and you do the same. This time taking your time licking the liquid off my palm. And the third time you stab the cherry with your tooth in half. You chew it like it wasn't so lightly hanging from the stem. You squeeze it like the wind wasn't whispering on it's surface everytime it passes by, rattled that it might bruise it's red.

A sour taste washes over my lips, it's one cherry you took up. But i let it color my petal softness with it's rose. I can undergo the sourness of one last taste for you. If it means i can hold you a little longer, a little more. I sneak a gape at you and inhale the intensity of the sugary scent one more time. Before you walk over the remaining cherries on the dirty ground. Trembling, open and sad, alone.

And Summer leaves. The sour taste on my tongue remains. Back to December's cold nights.

We blame it's wind for cutting the stem of two cherries.

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I hope you enjoyed reading Cherries. I would love to hear your thoughts and how this made you feel.

The cherry here represent her heart, cherries englobe the times she offered it for the same man. The basket full of cherries that falls to the ground refers to heartbreak. And him each time taking a cherry from the ground is a metaphor for the chances she gave, how many times she stood there with her broken heart and kept listening and forgiving. Too hopeful to walk away. Everytime something goes wrong, she offers her heart one more time. Hoping this time will be different.

“Licking the liquid off my palm” is a metaphor for his apologies just before he hurts her even more when he takes the next cherry between his teeth.

The wind here represent the rational thoughts, the people that care about her and herself. So when the last line blames the wind, it’s like blaming them for repulsing from him. Meanwhile it was him and only him who should be blamed, since February.

One day it hit her, this must end. She tasted the sourness in the cherries. It was the last cherry they shared : the last chance she gave.

But still, she endured it until the very end. Stealing the last moments of intense passion. And that’s what “ I can undergo the sourness of one last taste for you” stands for.

Thank you.

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I open the drawer, i open the pages, finding you tucked between the rages, Like a dry flower. Like a pill, like a substance, i take you in.

I take you back

because i need to feel something other than the numbness ,even if it's pain. Even if it's heartbreak again. Going back to you, because i miss you a little more as December nights carry me to the end of the chapter..

Through soaked lids i look up at you, figuring out when I lost you, the tree is cut from the roots of sanity. I am going mad at the midnight of sorrow, you can never look at me as nothing more than a meal. I repeat to myself, intrigued by the browny scent of earth in your eyes, it matches your element. It ruins mine.

You know you didn't break me once, twice nor thrice, you kept breaking me as my journals kept extending in size. The memory of you kept breaking me more, coming back and forth like flashing car lights. Until this day, until this night. after that December, after that June, i died.. after that fight.

I miss you, i missed you, and i think i will keep on missing you. Even when it's all done, even when we are long gone, i will miss you. Because you are the only real thing i can hold onto, because i am afraid of where i will be if i let you go out of my memory. If i stop writing, where do you go. Because to stop missing you means to set me free. To be on my own. The opposite of sanity is embodying a woman who yearned for you long enough, that now she doesn't want to let go of the illusion, of the flashing lights of the racing car, a long lost car.. while she can, if she stops the pen..

why? why don't i stop the racing fingers from hitting on my unconscious to breathe life into your presence and make three years feel like now. Hurt like now. Cut like now.. so i can flow with words and feel something. Even if it's pain, if it's heartbreak again.

you are now a limb in me, you are a part of my identity. Can't introduce me without you. And if i stop writing, if the pen gives up on me. I'll forget you. I will forgive you, i will move on from the only thing that made me feel free. I will move on from my escape corner. The only thing that doesn't make me break. The only thing keeping me alive, even as it breaks me, your memory is what keeps me warm when life gets too cold, and i get too numb. The only thing that made the stars dance with me, the only thing that made it easier, to breathe.

And If i stop writing..! if the paper becomes rigid. If the ink turns to stone.. i'd forget about the seventh of December, and the first of June. And you will be long gone. So i sit on my desk at midnight in my nightgown. And i open you because i just can't let you become a fever dream. I can't let the words slip from my hands so that box of memory inside my chest refills with void. i can't let your monosyllable replies diverge away from my frontal lobe. I need to remember the bitter taste, that endless night, i need to hold onto the roots and the thorns. I must keep bleeding. Guess it's my curse, it's what keeps me away from the worst. Because if i stop writing, you'll be forgotten, and i don't know who i am, if you are not a part of me, if you are not my handcuff from someone new. If you are not anchored in my memory, if you are not the object of my poetry.

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Read me a poem

Pour me verses

Spell Shakespeare on the coast of my lips

Carry every prayer with the passion of a poet

And i will worship at your altar

Read me a poem

With your hands on my hips

Never let the pen betray you

My chin is painted black with ink and confessions

Write me a letter

Remorph me with clay

Spill me out on a notebook

Read me a poem

Your love is vain

Like the void between the lines

It carries what words can't weight

A plead is forming in my voice

Your breath swallows any noise

My love is foreign

Written in a historical language

It wraps the right letters

For you to rearrange

Read me a poem

Pain is the origin of life

Read me a poem

Ink and sorrow go side by side

Read me a poem

The sunset can stretch until midnight

Read me a poem

Love is sustainable for tonight

…

My love is a feather

The wind is slumbering

Your love is blue

Read me a poem

My heart is soaked black

Read me a poem

And kiss my lips

Read me a poem

My love is a virgin paper at your fingertips.

The background song choice was intentional,

This poem captures what it feels like to yearn for someone, it hightens the desperation for intimacy. A temporary sparkle that fades eventually. A love story that ends. The love that leaves. And yet, we yearn for it, we want the stolen moments like running water through the gaps of our fingers. Never nestling our palm, always slithering away. And we still yearn for it, we bleed for it, we dare for it, we get high on passion and fire. And like running from an Apocalypse. You can’t;

But does that mean life is not worth loving?

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My ribs ache at the pressure rising beneath them.. The night ran quick, one glass after the other.. shared some laughter with friends and lot of unspoken pain to the tree that sat tall behind that one window. I don't know if it's the dizziness of alcohol or is the wood leaning in for me, to tell me it's fine, to pull me in for a hug. The voices reach the walls and bounce back into my skull, getting louder.. but not louder than the voices in my head, entering tight to the hole of my ear.. not tighter than the fist of an absent person, gripping my heart.

I check my phone, already eleven a clock, one bottle into midnight, i should head back home.. i have a past to sip until the sun slips from beneath the sea, into the skies. They ask me how am i doing, and i really don't have an answer to that. I mean who does? As if we are not all some lost creatures trying to look all put together while the only thing that's holding us tall is the grape juice we numb ourselves with or, if we are lucky enough, two arms can make it look like a perfect life, two bodies merging into one metaphysically, fingers tracing your mind like an archeologist translating a language from the dusk of time, passionately. They ask how am i handling losing a part of me, and i say fine, as if my heart didn't just skip a beat out of my ribcage at the mention of his name. I swallow the urge to say anything other than well, my grief is too precious for me to serve it on the menu of tonight's gossip session. And i fight the need to get up and leave, when they resume the minute this rock stopped rolling and it's like the skies contracted and held me captive of pain by calling it " a breakup". I never liked how this generation normalized these things, hooking up culture or whatever, i am here looking for souls connection and someone i die beside, someone the rivers stop running at the sign of us devouring each other's independent existence into a kiss. When the mouths unify and the portal zips open and takes you to heaven. He always said that i am the closest that he would ever get to paradise, so why did he sin his way out and leave me rotting in the depths of inferno? I have always been disgusted at how casually they tell you to find a new one, just get over it, he is not that hot... and that one " just " they add to every sentence. Simplifying the closest you can get to dying.. the only difference is that death gives you the privilege to end it all, but this torture is limitless. I hated how easy it was for them to jump from one another, i never knew someone like him, i have never been that vulnerable, never been that authentic, he was my first in everything, when he holds me .. i am nothing but his. When he touches me, he claims me and marks me even more... we were obsessed the way the birds are obssesed with their lovers, and we weren't love birds, we were eagles.. in the fierce fire and passion we emitted into the air.. and somehow, they tell you to "just" move on, as if you didn't lose your soul, after quitting your temple...

They all look at me like i have grown two heads, silent, lost ..and it's been frequent lately.. and i look at my glass and the tree, staring at me through the window, and it's like the wood is leaning in, hearing me cry out the words with a smile. Tears that only me and the tree can see.. and my grief has never left me since he did. And they don't know that my true night starts when i go back home and tuck my sorrow to bed... I have always wanted someone who understands conversations past the daily routine and how is your new skin care, someone with whom i can strip out of my casual easy going self and stand naked with no positive words or forced smiles, stand naked with my grief and scream about how much i miss him, how much i need him back. How much i love him, how it's not as easy as i make it sound.. but no one is that interested in actually peeling your layers and getting to know the real you.. because they are the type that will tell you to get over it,too many fishes in the sea pep talk, they don't know how heavy walking from day to day gets, they don't know what it's like to carry someone between your ribs, deep, inside your chest.

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Would love to hear your interpretations and thoughts

If you want to put it like that, well.. does falling apart every night and looking for the pieces i dropped each next morning count? Or the times i have spent trying to helplessly calm myself down with shaky hands, cascade cheeks and a racing heart.. does it count? when i couldn't hold it back in class and burst out in a stall.. or when i kept moving despite the agony i felt in my bones, the killing throb in my head as i tried to comprehend whether i was hallucinating about all the lies he said.. the lids i couldn't lift in the mornings ? The drawers that hug my journals so tightly or the lines that can't get any more crowded.. the crowds of emotions suffocating under my skin as i try to do better.. show up.. go to gym.. eat healthy.. get dressed.. meet someone.. laugh.. get the fuck away from me. that's what keeps hitting my brain like a wrecking ball, i don't know how i made it out of bed, didn't know how i faced all of the steps ahead.. does it count? The dust i kept lifting myself up from with a smile and a shredded heart? Just to fall short and choke? Does it count? The endless grief that pulled on the limbs of my coherent thoughts ? Does it count? The days i have spent ruminating around an illusion of promises he wrote on a passing cloud? Does it count ? How many times i bite down my tongue to not sob when someone asks why we fell apart ? Oh Lord, Does it count? The billion times i died and forced myself to get up and collect…

my miserable parts?

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Aren't ashes just memories in a new form, and if you don't feel special shouldn't you remember you were the first born? Priceless mother's smile the day you came to this world. Your father taking your wrists into his warm hands and chanting your now favorite song. An innocent smile with no cracks on hold. Your light hair didn't know the warmth of your dad's hand as your first man is irreplaceable. She didn't know that the wolves can't turn into sheeps and no there's no prince charming like Disney tough you. She didn't know that the innocence of her father's caress will keep brushing her hair when the nights get too unbearable. And that he will always be the only hero. Men out there can never compare.. but she doesn't know that the urge to be loved the way her dad loves her will turn into dust.. cause somehow love translated into lust on the tongue of the keyboard. Three years old me under the Christmas tree wearing her favorite princess dress, writing about her day in her brand new diary, little did she know diaries will hold more tears than any cloud will, daddy got her a barbie hat, dearest just thought that it's inevitable that one day she'll be someone's first, and last.

Dearest just thought one day a man will love her, the same love as her dad, dads are their first daughters love, and the greatest one they will ever have.

She grows up, and now she's too experienced with the corners of her diaries, lines know more than her favorite toy named dolly. Too many ripped pages yet her dad's flower is still wrapped between two white sheets. A father's caress is still as warm as she remembers.. just some bruises on her back keep bleeding from the betrayal of teenage boys.. and she learned the hard way, that no man is here to stay.. but may my father's caress never forgets it's way.. through the strands of my darker, yet still light, hair.

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Would love to hear your thoughts 🩷

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Your words thrown in the back of my head, echoing against the wall of romance, as the sound of logic begs between the cuts. Your voice bounces back with a drip of regret.. your voice bounces back with a tear of guilt.. between the cuts. And why did they take you away that night? You never came back .. i never came back, correction.. as if you can give in twice to someone. They say you never know the same person twice, not even in the same person. That was your chance, that was my trial. Between the cuts a judge writes down " a liar ". between the cuts i try to ask you why did you cheat.. you cut, i cheat, on myself because i promised to never go back, you cut, i break, my trust, and the judge writes down my sins. And i try to love me but i love you too much. They ask me why you never spoke about it, said there's nothing to be spoken about, the difference between before and after that night, is not the awakening of my conscious mind. It's the disappearance of my safety by your side. That one bubble i once curled inside. You look at me now and ask me why, because it was a matter of survival, whether you let the ship sink and i drown in the ink ... or i sink alone, so burn the wood and let it hit the bottom of the ocean, as if i could lose anything more.. i will ride a storm away from you... Crawling to myself, back home.

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A real artist doesn't caress the skin of a paper with a shaky hand, they devour it, they bow at it, they submit to the torture. Kneel in front of the feeling. And there and only there they get freed. they don't recall a suffering they didn't have, a hearbreak they didn't endure. They don't borrow a feeling, they rip it out of their ribcage. When you write. You must write about a feeling you lived, a feeling you know. Someone that owned you, or someone you owned. So that it snows, and you let go.

Because Poetry is about courage. Poetry is about letting go of yourself on paper. Getting drunk on your sensations. High on the thoughts that crawl under your flesh and reach a visceral level of corruption. So you move from this dimension to another, once you pick up the pen and put down the pain. Plainly and rawly, you start bleeding with no word to explain. But metaphors to maintain and sculpt a feeling that can't be reduced in one word or one sentence. And neither in a paragraph. Only metaphors and splashes of emotions, spits of the wrenching burden that agglutinate in front of every dot. Splintering pain that breaks your veins. And you bleed on paper. You cut yourself open for paper. You stretch for the ink. You get high before you blink.

You merge with sheets.

You expand with every line.

And you forget where you are, you dismiss who you are. You dismiss yourself for the poem, your heartbeat is a slave for the rhyme. You think you are in control of the words. thinking you are the one with the upper role. But you are the one on the leash, the paper whips the feeling out of you, into their niche.

You bleed so you don't forget, you bleed so you can memorize the feeling you can't pin your shaking finger on, something that can't be identified with a label,with a word. But can.. with one thousand and a pen.

Because every poem should be written with a forever-fresh blood. Because you should immortalise the torment between the dots.

A poem is a breathing being.

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I mourn you with every hanging tear on my lashes.

With every watery word merged with my ink.

…

Navigating the world with soaked lids that get heavier every morning. It gets harder to open them, maybe i don't want to anymore. There's nothing worth lifting the lashes from the flesh for, nothing worth lifting me up from the swallowing floor. The ceiling is coming closer to my lash tip, i hope it inches a little further, maybe i could finally drown. But somehow it's always the right distance just for me to suffocate and choke, then get a breath. Always a breath. I don't want the breath of a cracked ceiling anymore. Always the right distance, always the push and pull. It gets heavier to carry on, to open my lids, maybe because i carry a billion glimpses of you, on their tips.

Author note : The picture represents what’s like to grow wings and move on after palpitating in a lake of blood for too long.

~~~~

Remember me from last June?

Was that a year ago, or two?

Was it you who sewed me a necklace out of promises, while spinning me around under the moon ?

Flying me up, holding me down?

~~~~

Your hands said we will meet soon,

Soon never came,

But i wait ,

Missing when you played with my braids,

~~~~

You weren't the type that comes home at eight ,

But i held the memory of another date ,

So tight, Refusing to give it up ,

To the chimney light,

Loving you somehow felt right ,

Loving someone i hate,

Before the sunlight steals you,

Before the black owns me,

I wished you didn't run away ,

Leaving me drowning in disgust,

~~~

Black is all i saw,

Darkness swallowing us whole,

Right when you started calling me a whore,

~~~~

Right when you started calling me a slut,

I sit, and i pour down my what ifs,

I tell the moon my " buts",

Stretching out my cuts,

All i saw is red,

All i saw is darkness,

All i saw is blood ,

my blood merged with tears,

Your words ripping off my ears,

Whore whore slut,

The blood is rivering out of a cut,

Carried the guilt i didn't weight,

Carrying walls i didn't break,

I sit under the chimney light,

Humming a lullaby,

Singing your tune,

Filling up my cup,

Spoon after spoon,

My hands shake,

The mug breaks,

One more tear one more crack,

One more chance one more break,

The necklace rolling around my neck like a poisonous snake,

You weren't the type that comes home at eight ,

But i am the type that stayed up all night ,

Waiting for you,

~~~~

this year..

There's no buts,

I Stitched my cuts,

And no, i tore that necklace up.

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I know the soil ruins the water,

I knew the brown ends the blue,

but i held my breath at your sight,

And my eyes grew from olive to a starry night,

So i couldn't meet yours with that much yearning in mine,

I knew the brown ends the blue,

But there was a Thursday night,

And my hands got dirty with the blood of your crime,

I knew the brown ends the blue,

But i emptied my cup to fill yours,

Would spill my guts to keep you close,

Would light myself up and take your thorns,

If i knew this would keep you warm,

Would sit back and let you smoke my fog,

If you ordered the shining in my eyes to stop,

Would let you claw at my skin,

Wouldn't wince wouldn't cry would stand still,

Carrying the guilt of your sins,

Would let you take me as yours to kill,

Would learn to silence my pen,

Would write you a million letters,

Would never let you slither from my arms to my drawer,

I knew the brown ends the blue ,

But i begged your embrace not to perish,

And your caress is something i still cherish,

I knew the brown ends the blue,

But still, i loved you,

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The dream vanishes to ashes as the love whispers it's prayers at the three a.m dust club..

Everyone has a a letter in one hand and a shattered heart in the other. Disguised as a glass of liquor. the ground is vibrating underneath the dead souls. The crowd keeps shouting waiting for the next blood volcano to vanish in one second after finishing a poem. I stand on the stage, hands shaking and heart racing. Carrying my words on my tongue and his name in my song. Carrying the memory of dust, carrying the the price i paid. My voice shakes as i break with every line. Remembering his touch. Remembering the chants of obsession echoing against my chest. Forgetting that i promised, that my previous poem was going to be the last i mourn your love in, with an aching heart, as my fingers trace the necklace i refuse to take off..

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