I saw their faces

after they dismembered my stasis.

The cheers and attacks

made me fear potential chases.

I continued my silence

as I do throughout crisis

and struggled to identify

the logistics of defiance.

The anger stays within

though my patience wears thin

and exacting revenge -

I wouldn't know where to begin.

Their arrogance is haunting,

sadistic and daunting.

I dread showing off,

to feel their eyes wanting.

I am told I am rude,

bitchy; in a mood

for feeling the tip of a blade everyday

You don't know the strength of my attitude.

Do you not think

I'm as breathless as you?

That my body is as empty

as my bed

and that I crave like you?

Upon reflection, I'm taking notice

of how cold you think I am

of how unloved you feel.

I have a view over your left shoulder

(though to me it seems to be the right)

and I can see an unmentioned birthmark

one I still haven't mentioned

but one that I think about when I'm not

visiting; being tended to.

Of all the things we never discussed

(and we discussed a lot)

I kept your birthmark

hidden between my breasts

and I consider it

when I'm feeling hungry,

when I'm not visiting;

being tended to.

"All lives matter", they shout

as they rip

pull

punch

kick

slaughter

cackle

tear

and kill

I get hot

remembering when we 

touched each other

on the couch.

If we did it now, would you be

all the more impressed?

When we say what love is,

it's always so unique, isn't it?

We write it down and remember it.

You.

Love is not a clenched fist.

Love is open palms,

it's sobbing when you get home

from the big send-off

and wishing you had the courage to say

what you wouldn't even dare write down.

That you hold them close in your mind.

That they're perfect,

and it's proof that God is real.

That you know you're childish,

the way you squeeze them tight

and how your heart breaks

when you say goodbye tonight.

I am touched

and we become a sunset

and two sets of hands make me feel

delicious and real.

Through these woods

I wish to explore.

Like standing in the middle of the street

in those untame hours.

I saw it written on a bathroom wall,

"We are souls seeking a human experience".

I would credit the writer but she is as mysterious

as our apparent triad.

How I would tell you my unsaid thoughts,

if I believed you would listen.

Breathless

You suffocate

like Summer cotton.

A false muse

made of quirks and feedback.

Don't go to the show,

that's where she goes,

she calls herself a "ho",

the things she says.

The things she says.

The things she says

written on a

list on each scented breast

watching where your eyes go

so she can eat who you love.

She says you aren't new

though she's the holder

of stolen ideas and

a calculated lifestyle.

She likes that she's a slogan,

a fairy,

a bitch.

Once she passes you through,

you learn to sit

and watch his disenchanted face

when he hears

the things she says.

The things she says, the things she says.

How did we all fall for it?

The things she says, the things she says.

When she comes she brings the top

dressed to the nines

She's trendy

and it crushes me.

A pure glass of electric soda

and I kiss the ground she walks on.

I wish she wouldn't leave me

but don't you know she's getting on fine?

With every maneuver she grows an inch

adding power to herself

and holding my head underwater.

I wish she wouldn't leave me,

a pure glass of electric soda

and I kiss the ground she walks on.

I decorate myself in shells and seaweed

Because this coastline makes me feel like nothing less.

When the rain makes your cold skin feel warm

and on me you give a parade of kisses,

each one forgiving and thanking,

all the while the waves that crash give me instruction

that I should crash into you.

It's getting late but

I'm not done exploring you yet.