the vines in my veins

Sometimes I swear I

wrote myself into

oblivion, pen

twisting onto paper and

becoming resounding

screams of

insufficiency.

Sometimes I swear I

wrote myself out

of oblivion, words

becoming threads of

self love and

healing, growing

vines in my veins and

telling me to

climb them.

Perhaps there were

treasures buried in the

dark,

perhaps I wrote myself

there

just to write myself

back.

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build the floodgates stronger, I beg

I tiptoe the line between insanity and reality while

my hands shake with the earthquakes you have

planted.

I cannot feel but I can feel the way my

body is shivering from the cold your words inject

into my bloodstream.

It feels as if there is so much pain held in

the underwires of my skin and I am rushing

home, trying to reach the door before it begins to

spill from the openings of my eyes, before

I overflow.

to write you

You ask me to write about you.

To write about you, not write you the way you throw wishes I would paint you back and forth between your lips.

I tell you I do not know to write about because one can only paint not paint about and writing is just painting pictures with words anyhow.

You don’t see the difference but to me it is huge, filling up the space between us in its enormity and I tell you to give me a moment.

I tell you to let me write you like sunshine, cascading light, tender hands that teach the world to bloom.

Let me write you like a magic act, predictable in your constancy, always drawing out awe from an audience that is as dark inside as the night.

I plead you to let me write you the way you hold me, soft marmalade skin, your heart whispering love songs to the rhythm of the morning.

It is late now and I weave my fingers between yours like patchwork, promise that to write about you would make no sense at all.