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have a good day <3

I dress you in my mind and kiss your scarred clavicle.  I pass my fingers through your hair and begin to lose all that is rational. 

May no soul save me from myself, as you dwell in my mind. Here, I get to savor the moment; and here, alas, you are mine.

Nothing but a reminder

That I am a small well.

I plead with syllables

To form long enough poems

To wrap myself up

And let it embrace me when

No one else will.

Maybe when I sing

Someone will listen

And they too will

You desperately try to rewrite it in layman’s terms. Level the surface of something so untouchable, So that it may remain flat, palpable, real. We sand down our conversations and our interests buff away the personality so that we can remain digestible. Surface level, even. Level the surface of something so complex and tedious out of fear and nothing will remain.

Depth. The presence of layers, complexities, nuances: Illuminate the length of time, The width of desire, The height of our emotions. Spatially conjoined at each edge Are two points of contention then we search for exploited three-dimensional illusions As a way to level the surface.

In theory we understand reflection And refraction with something tangible And struggle to make it Transferrable to the abstract. In practice the tip of this vertex is the point of no change when spliced apart and dissected each barrier produces a diffraction too substantial to reconcile.

Depth. Cohesive on the surface. Leveled, to pieces.

Steathily, you move.

I extend my hands to feed you and offer you the water I collect. You tell me you must shed, and I pray you do so, with ease. It must hurt to be so contained.

Thoughtlessly, I aid you. I make room for you to grow, and I keep myself small. I feel my own skin shed in the process but I refuse to pick my scabs until you are clear and free. When my time comes, I intend to heal and be birthed, anew. Was it wrong to believe that you would, too?

I find secret pieces of you around me. A limb I did not know existed, and a fingernail you’ve keep hidden. The pieces do not match what I see. I begin to wonder if there’s someone else hiding amongst us, and fear dwells in the recesses of my gut. I have to bring you into my shelter, even if you are too big to fit in my arms, now.

So I place myself between a rock and a tree, and I stretch and stretch and stretch until I am happy I can hold you, and I take you away. But when we sleep at night, I hear sounds that feel familiar but with distorted pitch; almost like a crunching, or the smack of lips too intentional to be incidental. I stay hidden, afraid that we have been followed; under attack. I wonder where you are. I worry and I beg God to spare you and when God doesn’t aid me, I seek you myself only to find you eating your own body - the only version of you I knew.

Mourning you feels incomplete, because here you are crouched in front of me - licking your lips and watching nothing else, but me.