#hijacked poem

there’s a glow in the dark corners of the net where the lonely hearts drift like moths toward the blue flame of soft confession tumblr...they call it but really it’s an altar built from pixelated petals and handwritten wounds

muses sit heavy in these rooms they wear eyeliner smudged like midnight storms they whisper write it down bleed it out and we do oh god we do

here... love is stitched from reblogs and asks from secret tags hidden like letters in coat pockets from poems about strangers...with galaxy eyes from fanfics that taste like honey and lightning every word feels like a hand on your shoulder steady sure saying i know you

it’s comfort it’s chaos it’s hearts typing furiously at 2 am wrapped in blankets and playlists summoning love like an old ghost knowing somewhere someone is reading someone is healing someone is saying

if a poem were a woman she would swing her hips like wrecking balls leave bruises in the shape of forgotten childhoods whispering the names she buried in shallow graves and kiss you ...just before you remembered who you are were

if a poem were a woman she would wear grief like silk stockings run holes through your best intentions stare down your gods...without blinking then pull you apart like loaves meant for the starving

if a poem were a woman she would not be framed or quoted neatly she would grow wild out of the cracks in your spine planted seeds... in every "I'm sorry" you ever uttered and you would call it love because pain never tasted so...

if a poem were a woman she would sharpen herself on your bones wear your apologies as jewelry dare you to touch her and flay you clean with a word leave your soul twitching politely on the floor

if a poem were a woman she would ruin every quiet thing you thought you owned stitch chaos into the hems of your shirts write her name across your lungs in a language you’ll never learn then leave without closing the door

somewhere...a man scrapes marrow from the hollow of a femur broils it down to something consumable he calls it survival calls it necessity but i wonder if he tastes the ghosts if his tongue curls around the memory of the sinew pulling itself apart

in another life i am a taxidermist i learn how to stitch the empty back into something whole how to hold a hollow thing and call it alive i perfect the art of pretending of making death sit still ...and smile

her fragments slip beneath my surface find silence and sink deep becoming more than ruin

they stir what never stirred a pulse a breath beneath dust the ache of something wanting to be born

flowers press through scars not to erase but to become

and he once stone begins again