A Love Letter

Want
how I want
to press my lips to yours
but I am not nearly
deserving.

Sad and sorry to say
that I am the girl
who thinks you
are the color yellow
dancing
through a semi-spoiled space,
and the music shares your beauty.

And darling,
you really do have
an unusual spirit.
Dark.
What makes it so dark?
Who is holding you to them
when I can’t?

I ask that
my own darkness doesn’t
make you bitter
or sad.
I couldn’t bear to see those
chocolate eyes of yours
watered down by the pain
of life that I feel.

Have you had my heart
on your mind?
It’s made me so blue,
thoughtless.
Has me saying,
“Adore me,”
to men who aren’t you.

But I sold my soul
for you.
I am to dance,
body entwined with yours,
through eternity
and I wish I could
pick up the color yellow
and hold it between my palms
and push it right
into my chest.

Maybe then
I’d be a pretty green color
like that silk dress you bought me
once upon a time.

But I’m still blue and empty handed.

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Lovers Left Behind

It’s easy to say
“I don’t care”
to say that it doesn’t hurt
that their voice doesn’t still
echo through your core
“I’ve moved on”
you say as you pour yourself a cup
of black coffee.
(You used to take cream and sugar)

It’s not so easy to conjure
up their spirit,
or remember what it felt like
to snuggle into their arms,
or understand why you still feel sick
for a person who hurt you so badly,
for a person who you really
really
shouldn’t have loved at all.

But for some reason,
you like to torture yourself.
You think about it more than you should,
and even though you are so incredibly happy,
loved,
in love completely,
and you understand that what you have now
is what you need
and is what’s filling your lungs
with crisp, fresh air,
you ache.

You hear Elton John
and think of the time you laid
with legs on the wall,
blonde hair tumbling into orange shag carpet,
waiting for someone to make you feel important,
(It was your eighteenth birthday)
He walked in and saw you,
arms above head,
the spinning record vibrating your soul.
“I hate Elton John,”
and shut the door and left.

But the ache,
the pounding,
the sobs stuck in your throat,
they are magic.
You were pushed off the edge of a cliff,
straight into new skin,
your skin,
the skin you always belonged in
but were too afraid to find.

Be thankful for the lovers lost,
left behind you,
They made room for yourself,
your light no longer contained or
confined,
it glows warmly,
seeps into those around you,
and they love Elton John.

Sour Milk

Sour milk assumes its position
in my small
tortured fridge.
A reminder that I sat
alone in a chair for weeks
making myself sick on drink
and forgetting that I need to live.

That milk smells rotten, sad,
says
“Dare me.”

I sold your shoes for that milk,
must be why it’s bad.
Maybe it’s like you
sweet at first,
lovely on the tongue,
then bitter.
Maybe it’s like me, though–
Sour all the time.

 

The Star

You meet a star and cling to your bravery.
clutch it tight to your chest and squeeze,
You can’t let it go.
The star can sense your fear.
It burns a hole right through your brain with it’s light.
Left with a mush of things you wish you would’ve said,
a soup of things you wanted to forget,
The star seduces what’s left of your mind,
making that star a thing you could never, ever forget.
You resist the glimmer,
Don’t look directly into it’s core
or you’re a goner.
The star sucks
steals
smiles its sinister smile.

You dog.

You like the way it burns at the touch,
it makes you feel alive.
Washes your soul of the useless garbage that made you so numb.
You hate meeting stars that don’t burn you the way she does.

Sick in the head.

She asks your dead soul to calm her fire.
liking the taste of torture on your tongue.
It’s bitter, like the squares of chocolate
your grandma used to feed you.
Yet you relish in the taste,
cherish the way your tongue stings after she’s gone.

If you let it,
the star might kill you.

Cigarette Kiss

There’s something about the taste of a cigarette
right before you light it up
You inhale its earthy flavor
as it sits between your lips.
Know it won’t taste as good
as the smell you smell right now.
A string of spit laughs as your lips part
releasing a mouthful of
thick
grey
smoke.

It fills lungs
just as it fills the room.
Inhale the poison,
exhale the relief
as your body does a flip
for the cancerous toxins
keeping you alive.
Something about it

Makes you think of a time
when you fell
through air,
not knowing when your crumpled body
would smack the cement
and someone reached out to catch you.
They smelled of stale cigarettes
You could taste it on their kiss.

You grew to crave his presence,
body ached for his touch,
and his own smoke
became a death wish.
A habit you had to kick,
It could kill you
if you weren’t careful.

And cold turkey,
you quit.

Cosmic Lovers

I find myself slipping into a sleep

weighted and heavy

like the smoke that follows

an all engulfing fire

and the weight

it presses down on my chest

with forceful palms

and reaches through my body

picking me up

caressing my curled up form

and the light

is bright,

white,

it stems from between my eyes

and soon the room is full

the white light and a purple haze,

it surrounds me and I feel its warmth,

like that of a tight hug from a lover.

And there is a sound,

a piercing song of high frequency,

filling my eardrums

why can’t I move?

I am stuck, frozen in my bed

but feel my soul drifting freely

into another dimension,

and I hear him whisper in my ear,

“My darling, somewhere

you are dancing with the

sun on your skin,

with sweat licking your upper lip,

go there, love.”

And so I let go

let her go to the place

where she tangles her hands with yours,

presses her lips to your cheek,

leaving behind a smudge of cherry red,

and she

pulls you close to her body and

dances to the rhythm of two

heartbeats in time with each other.

Mouthful of Stardust

Familiar souls,
old souls,
pieces of the same star
lusting for each other in the darkness.
Her lips,
fast awake on your skin
Faces melting
with the saliva that ties tongues together
and the heat of cheek against cheek.
Takes it, says she wants more.
How does she always look so young under your hand?
So breakable
and my god,
so beautiful.
The curves of her ass
in the light dimmed by a silk,
her sand colored skin
that damns you to hell
when you allow yourself to have a bite,
breaking the hard candy coating.
Her bubblegum sweat
feels so darling
whispers
“I love you.”
Hold steady, sweet child.
Hold tight.
Rise and fall,
head on chest.
Another world opens
and you see her with electric eyes
and she greets your open kiss
with a mouthful of stardust,
spilling through her seams
and your souls
merge closer
and closer
and closer
and you feel like you can’t live without her.
Your soul is hers.

Sinners Dinner

Eating old leaves of lettuce
(an orange tint around the edges)
sopping with a bitter vinaigrette.
I sit and I salivate at the sins
that form on my tongue.

The drinks,
always the drinks,
the drinks that pass the time,
that harvest danger,
the drinks that
take my morals,
lick my bones clean of salvation.

And the women,
like cancer to me,
sitting on my lap,
hands down my pants,
or on the corner of the street,
buying cheap booze on a Wednesday,
The women.
Whores,
mothers,
teachers,
I wanted them all.
The ones who weren’t whole
and needed a fucker like me
to make them feel better.

They all said I’m a good one,
I guess I worked hard.
And then I’d drink
and I’d yell
and she’d cry
and she’d leave.
Had to get used to them
being jealous
of the vodka.

Now it’s just me
and my sin
and my salad.