writers

writers will want to know who you are, where you come from, what your family was like.

we will look through your photographs
and read all of your old love letters.
we will ask you to bitch when you’re angry and cry when you’re hurt.

we will ask what that raised eyebrow meant.
what that sigh meant.
we will want to know your favorite food,
your favorite color, your favorite person.

we will always, always ask why.

writers don’t settle for your outside.
we want the insides.
we want what makes you heavy,
what makes you uneasy,
what makes you scream for joy,
and anger, and heartbreak... 

writers will take off your shirt

and read every scar,

every mark,

every soft curve.

we will turn your skin into pages

that you learn to pour your entire soul in.

we will dissect you.

every organ,

every thought,

all the way down to your soul.

consume or empower

Fucked up things happen.

They happen all the time. 

But sometimes those

fucked up things...
they save you.

When adversity arises,
you have two options,

let it consume you,

and live your days in self pity,
or fucking rise above it

and let it empower you

to do better,

to be better.

aftertaste

I want to stain your lips with my name,
and years later 
when we aren’t kissing each other, 
lovers will still taste what we had.

repetition

Robbed from your soul. 
Deprived of proof. 
 
There is no convincing you. 
 
Everything is fucked,
and whisked away from you 
like a plastic bag

escaping with the wind. 
 
You wouldn’t have be able 
to hold onto it even if you tried.
 
Despondency calls

‘check mate’  The winner once again....

the itch

When I write,
I write with blood.

Words swim in veins beneath my skin,
traveling the landscape of my body.

It’s the process of retrieving them that’s the hard part.

Sometimes they come clean,
like a nurse collecting blood with a needle.
It stings, but leaves no trace.

Other times, words itch and beg to be released.
With fingernails I dig.
Opening wounds like a soldier searching for a bullet inside an arm.
It leaves scars and empty holes where nouns and verbs used to be.

It hurts, but it needs to be written, it needs to be said.
A temporary permanence... 

crime scene

It was his fault for falling in love with my words instead of my smile. 
He was more interested in my veins than my eyes. 
And maybe that's why you look at me like a murderer. 
If this love was a crime scene darling, he'd be the only one with the gun.

the trick

Nostalgia is a dirty liar

that insists things 
were better than they seemed.