at home in our own anarchy

we broke walls

down through the

intertwining of our fingers and

held a rebellion at the

feet of our own

thrones and when our

lips touch it is all

revolution,

revolution,

revolution and

a lover’s war

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summer salt

offcity streets.
stretches of green roll away to the sound of vintage summer music and the soft of your heartbeat. only hours ago I swore I was carrying too much weight to open my chest even for oxygen.  now it all feels a lot like feathers.  like a distant memory of the heaviness. like it’s the pain that can’t breathe when you’re next to me.

 

a field of sunflowers.
you drove me hours just to hold hands with  petals that have fallen for the sun.  i think of the poem I wrote once. if I remember it was about sunflowers and directions. it feels long ago. funny because hours feel like minutes when I’m with you. i laugh at the idea of  loving anyone else somehow. when you drive I flicker my gaze between the window and your image now.  i can’t decide which view is more beautiful. but if I were made to choose I know it would be you.

 

pretty skylines.
i hold your hand like you are made of stardust. one strong whisper and you could blow away. stardust because I know you to build galaxies. stardust because you must be made of shooting stars. the kind that caught my wishes when I set them free. how else could this be real and you be in love with me.

 

letter to the consumer

In the age of information

overload, of ghosts with

flimsy paper power who

shovel cookie cutter thoughts

down our throats to keep us

busy,

I do not

desire to be

palatable,

I do not

ache to be

sweet on your

tongue -—

I want my

body to

burn as you

swallow,

so that you

cannot hear me

without listening,

so that you

must stop and think

about the way history

bleeds behind the

thoughts that you are

eating.