receiving messages a year later

However much it hurt,

I am proud that I have

been soft, even

to those who have

punctured me.

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demolition day

I remember the way my mother

cried for days when they signed by the x’s and

told the men with the hard hats to

tear down the home I was

born in and back then it

didn’t make much sense to

draw salt water from your

eyes for the life of a

house but I believe I am starting to

understand the pain of

demolishing the places

where things began.

 

broken bones

How much

damage will I let you do to me?

 

I say damage like

broken like

hurt like

nights spent watching my 

fingers like

shards of a mirror you helped

make whole only to 

throw against the 

wall of a room it didn’t

belong in anymore.

 

How much

damage until I am

nothing or I am

yours?

 

 

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.