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Description
i. when i was younger,
the first time i sold my heart,
i didn’t quite understand the demons that i was
placing inside my constricted veins
because anything was welcome relief from
a black hole embrace.

ii. He
was some sort of
delayed acidic that, in my youth,
i mistook for fruit: Pomegranate,
because it became my prison and His smile was
so blinding and bright, i thought,
a semblance to the sun to lead me out of
the dark deep woods but
his gleaming canines were just
bottles of bleach

i found
i breathed salt better than
most mermaids and i carved waves
into soft sea-foam skin.
i was drowning in an ocean
that used to be my home; used to be
where i bartered with sharks, where i
braided sea shells along my collar bones
and lived a life as swift as
the kick that felled any sand castle.

my world was mirrors;
reflecting a different plane than reality and
the space He consumed
blanketed my presence;
drove the air from my lungs to
fuel His fire and i was empty; hollowed ground
where memories were cast away
to fend for life amongst decaying flowers

He made me memorize the ache
of painful memories, even after i thought
i could breathe normally again and
the imprint of His harsh hands on
the curves of my soft hips
overlapped the scars, at least
for a little while but even the burn
of His vodka breath couldn’t quench
my whiskey existence

iii. i was a paper girl,
blue lines imprinted,
translating fear into words but
no one could figure just how to read me
so i didn’t understand how
one girl who doesn’t even understand poetry
could reach me, past all the metaphors, and
hold me like I was made of something solid,
despite my mosaic of pieces

iv. She was different,
some sort of controlled chaotic,
dressing in roses and
a dusky clarity that reminded me
of long fogged mirrors; imprints of drifting
ghost-memories that only leave
when you wipe them away but
I want Her to stay

I breathed butterflies,
choking on words She willed me to explain
and, for once, the poet was speechless;
unable to string alphabet soup into
some hypnotic story line around the circumference of
Her pinky finger and, dazed,
I answered every question ‘why’
in erratic sound waves that, somehow,
were still words to Her

v. She is
the colour of horizons
tearing through reality to daydreams and
I crave Her fingertips, breaking down my walls and
the space between us is always too much because
She could never be close enough, even if
we were always laced at the hand
and connected by
every inch of skin

She is this burning in my throat that
no amount of wolf howls;
yearning for the untouchable moon
could ever compare and I can’t find words;
She’s captured my lips, my breaths;
stealing the air from my veins,
leaving me gasping in some semblance of pain but
only when She’s here
can I breathe

Description
i. when i was younger,
the first time i sold my heart,
i didn’t quite understand the demons that i was
placing inside my constricted veins
because anything was welcome relief from
a black hole embrace.

ii. He
was some sort of
delayed acidic that, in my youth,
i mistook for fruit: Pomegranate,
because it became my prison and His smile was
so blinding and bright, i thought,
a semblance to the sun to lead me out of
the dark deep woods but
his gleaming canines were just
bottles of bleach

i found
i breathed salt better than
most mermaids and i carved waves
into soft sea-foam skin.
i was drowning in an ocean
that used to be my home; used to be
where i bartered with sharks, where i
braided sea shells along my collar bones
and lived a life as swift as
the kick that felled any sand castle.

my world was mirrors;
reflecting a different plane than reality and
the space He consumed
blanketed my presence;
drove the air from my lungs to
fuel His fire and i was empty; hollowed ground
where memories were cast away
to fend for life amongst decaying flowers

He made me memorize the ache
of painful memories, even after i thought
i could breathe normally again and
the imprint of His harsh hands on
the curves of my soft hips
overlapped the scars, at least
for a little while but even the burn
of His vodka breath couldn’t quench
my whiskey existence

iii. i was a paper girl,
blue lines imprinted,
translating fear into words but
no one could figure just how to read me
so i didn’t understand how
one girl who doesn’t even understand poetry
could reach me, past all the metaphors, and
hold me like I was made of something solid,
despite my mosaic of pieces

iv. She was different,
some sort of controlled chaotic,
dressing in roses and
a dusky clarity that reminded me
of long fogged mirrors; imprints of drifting
ghost-memories that only leave
when you wipe them away but
I want Her to stay

I breathed butterflies,
choking on words She willed me to explain
and, for once, the poet was speechless;
unable to string alphabet soup into
some hypnotic story line around the circumference of
Her pinky finger and, dazed,
I answered every question ‘why’
in erratic sound waves that, somehow,
were still words to Her

v. She is
the colour of horizons
tearing through reality to daydreams and
I crave Her fingertips, breaking down my walls and
the space between us is always too much because
She could never be close enough, even if
we were always laced at the hand
and connected by
every inch of skin

She is this burning in my throat that
no amount of wolf howls;
yearning for the untouchable moon
could ever compare and I can’t find words;
She’s captured my lips, my breaths;
stealing the air from my veins,
leaving me gasping in some semblance of pain but
only when She’s here
can I breathe