and i’ve never felt more beautiful or alive than when my cheeks were flushed from your touch,
my lips swollen from your kisses,
my body awake and glowing in your arms.
soon naught but our own skin will form the boundary between us; and even that border is tenuous
do you feel my heart beating?
do you understand?
do you feel the same?
all my life I have been told that I would “be a writer” when I grew up.
it became a weird career placeholder, one that frequently seemed ill-fitting. it was an answer provided to me before I dared ask the question.
but what qualifies as “being a writer”? I have written newspaper articles, diary entries, essays, grocery lists, postcards, secret notes, wishes, poems, short stories, blog posts, cover letters, thank you cards, personal statements (whatever the hell those are), and my name, on countless sheets of looseleaf and screens of various sizes.
am I a writer now? how do I build a future on my words? who will pay to read what I discard?
clumsily stitching up that canyon i tore into our universe
but healing nonetheless
"no," i whispered to myself, repeating it like a prayer,
denying the months of dreaming that latched onto my heart.
my brain knew the truth all along.
but it’s done now, anyway.
And just like that, I have swept it all away.
A five-month long walk in the sun, a golden age of deception, finally popped. I am cold again, like I wanted from the start.
I tried to tell you.
sitting here making up reasons to be mad at you so i can experience something else besides just missing you.