She wields the moon in her hands And springtime in her hair, She promised me absolutley nothing And somehow I found it fair She wispered me (sweet) nothing Yet I grew more loving In her silences and sighs  By the time skies were of July I was ready to make some room  For the moonlight to come through.

And suddenly the grass was taller than me,  I blinked and the reeds took advantage They covered the sun and the sky As if meaning to stupefy...  And I in the crushing blow i believed I was the root The cause of it all.  So I wouldn’t dare to move, to take a new route. I wouldn’t dare to take a sip of breath or fall On my knees and weep so gently. And plead with the grass, with the weeds Creeping buttercup, please Be my sun, my new light. This isn’t shelter of mine It’s somehwere I stayed For a minute or thirty years And I’m afraid, oh so afraid It will be somewhere I stay,  For a lifetime or two  It’s somewhere that overgrwon me and you  Somewhere I persistently feel out of place, And suddenly it was gone. Just like that.  I lied to myself in a blink of an eye, That in the reeds, in the grass all the time I ever had would pass.

I want to be trapped in an oil painting Your fingers grazed so gracefully Carving smooth shapes of my body  Sighing in awe of imperfections,  But I was only a muse for a moment,  When light decided to bless my skin and Open your eyes to my ivory  So precious and rare and lost to a shadow Before I knew it I hopped off a stool and Never saw myself as baroness of great beauty  But somehow at a distance I managed to torture you softly, Convincing your fingers are incapable  Of grasping my being Even though I wish you did it with more than oil

I can’t escape your love, It’s like a headlock, But I don’t mind the wrestle, In your arms I easily nestle, There’s a fine line between a bruise and a hickey, And my body is always black and blue But it doesn’t mean I suffer, Shades of purple cover your body too, A beast that’s  tamed is still a beast, But he sleeps quietly at night, He does not cause me a fright, Nor he’ll ever feast, On my heart or my soul, He’ll leave behind his harsh claws And his heart will have no flaws. Because it’s mine, not yours, It belongs to me, it’s mine. My lover, you are mine.

Happy birthday my beloved.

*** In the sweet days of May I can still smell Dandelions and gunpowder, Sunset is mixed with smokes of his shotgun But at least my heart has no desire to run, With the sweet winds of May, As they are foolish and tempting for a second Get you running in circles, but I reckon Scars from a gunpoint don’t fade away.   So just enjoy May. From far away.  

You press me like a flower into the page, Whether it’s out of love or hate it os hard to gauge, The sheet will soak me up over time, What are you going to do with a dry carcass of mine? Perhaps you’ll be a little kinder to my bones, Now that they are visibly fragile and would snap, Instantly, without turning blue-bruised, I hope dried flowers don’t get abused.   I will retain my sweet summer scent, So I can remind you what our sunshine-soaked kisses meant, How I felt when you raised me off the ground. With your fist, But I swear it felt like another kiss, I hope to be pretty, buried between pages, Pretty quiet, pretty sweet, pretty ageless,  Pretty something I shouldn’t be. For a nature destroying man,  What I really hope  is just to turn into dust, So you’ll never have me. Never smell me. Never dry me. Again.

I can feel my ribcage expanding, As I inhale under the pressure of your body My chest slowly fills with air I wish to steal a kiss in order to prepare For the explosion of life upon vague colour sheets A muzzled sigh into my neck Confusing whispers in the dark That make sweat, make me instantly fret I feel my ribcage deflating And your hands around my neck to loosen I feel your heart to close in on me As though like one again we will never be.

I greatly desire, Not to taste the sharp salt on my tongue, Not to brush the tip against the roof of my mouth, Trying to scrape the disease out I can feel every word I swallow, Everything tastes like nothing, especially sorrow, I lust over knife blades to give me some relief, There’s something in there like a dry sheaf, I cough up  hay occasionally, Just some dried thoughts and a grain of emotion, I’m tired of the gaging motion, Cure my sores with your devotion, Never quit rinsing my mouth, With your salt water. Be the blade. Be my inner slaughter.