i like boys that are too skinny. i like to trace my finger tips over their bones and etch my words into their bodies. i want teeth to scrape clavicle and inner thigh with lines from books i’ve plagiarized i want to insert meaning into the parts of you that you try and hide. i want to find all of those dark spaces, bruise you with this mouth and leave marks that are just a bit deeper than skin behind. when it’s over, i’ll roll onto my side and count the lines and halfmoons i imprinted over your spine. i want to make love to your mind.
I spend all this time collecting pages from the books of my lovers, wondering when I’ll have enough words to form a chapter.
If I sing you a song, if I write you that book - would it be enough for you to call this heart your home
i’m sitting in a dark room watching slam poetry
and feeling the sick of inadequacy
seep into my pores and fill me with these words
that i cannot convey properly
that i cannot transform into rhyme or rhetoric
my muses have never been positive, mostly pieces of things that make me want to tear myself apart
it’s a collection of poorly used lines to impress or to slice at someone’s throat
i guess you could say i get a little bitter sometimes
it wasn’t magnificent. none of it was. sometimes expectations exceed intentions, and when that happens - there’s nothing beautiful about it. there’s nothing tangible leftover. if there was anything even real to start with, that is. sometimes beginnings don’t have endings, maybe someone tore the middle out of the story and you’re left to figure it out yourself. someone wrote you that way, left things open for interpretation or maybe you just think about it too much. i know i do. always grasping at theories instead of just accepting the past or the things i cannot change.