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.
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
The bomb killed twenty two, twelve too young to drive. (Still dying.) On the coast, I hear it - blasted white caps ripping flesh. The fish they feed are dying too. At his concert, Matty yells, We’re proud to be from Manchester! The crowd spouts roses, glow sticks, and smoke. I leave - too dizzy to sing or think. Security stops me - checks my pockets for bombs - finds shards of the world. Why do you have these? They scream. I thought music would fuse them, I plead, reaching and pulling God from the smog, but they can’t see. They stumble and puff - too numb