For our birthdays, we exchanged socks like promises: I’ll protect you if you protect me. But we hated confinement, so often, we shed our socks and raced through hallways, puddles, rivers— more than common ground. We broke free of simplicity—spilled over walls like nail polish, screamed like firing guns, and ate our fill of rainclouds. For your birthday, I wear your socks, slip, fall, and think: I’ll get up for you if yo
I miss the shadows that spin past eyelids, onto the floor, and legs sprouting like leaves from blanketed branches.
I miss feeling your wounds heal under my mouth. I miss the coils of coalish petals you left on my pillowcase.
I miss the unseen grins, minutes before sunrise. I miss sleep talk, on and off, biological alarms that sang me awake. I miss limbs against limbs, the art of the sleepless, and the blinking bruises of morning.
It’s Hell to wash the mess, to pick apart clinging wire, to accept that my body
you're syrup that's too sweet for me. our souls are stuck, (without permission) wound and bound by cobwebs, curly q’s, dust clumps. but i don’t want the kind of love you can crush with bare hands. i want the good stuff, (not over-the-counter) the kind that weaves pages in leather-bound bowels.
all i have is sap for paint, blood for rouge, and glue to keep my eyes shut when they’d rather look at you.