Tag: love


How silly of me to think I would be the one to hurt him, that I would turn a heel upon the left aorta of his heart. No, how silly of me. I am watching me bleed out.


Things feel very.. unsettled. I know I haven’t posted in weeks, I apologize. I became rather preoccupied with finishing out the remainder of the semester–halfway through a Masters of Education program with a 3.95GPA and I won’t be returning. I’m still designing the move to Baltimore. It makes me so nervous.
I’m mostly roped up in mitigating my involvement with the aforementioned man. I thought I was a basketcase but he really challenges me. It’s nice to have a man that occasionally craves involving me in his life, but he’s so inconsistent. Irrational. I can’t let myself believe desperation is sincerity. His emotions are all muddled but intense. He gets immersed in them and pushes me away when I try to help. He wants help but he won’t accept it. Nutty.
SO, I enjoy his company when he allows it and when it’s convenient for me. The sex is still solid.




I’m mitigating my involvement
with his lips but signing blind
contracts with his hips. Love
is an itch at the back of his
throat and I’m tonguing it
like a wound, keeping it raw.
Too sore to touch. The heat
of his breath on my chest
when I’m thick with sleep burns
holes in my lungs. I’m short
of breath and short on luck
when I’m ankle deep in the slow
crawl of dreams bathed in the legs
of cicadas floundering like I do,
squirming away from love.




Sometimes I feel allergic to his touch,
like when he grips my hips when we’re
twisted in sheets.. that his fingers
will slip to my throat to hold
until I choke. There’s something about
that first man. Oh men. I’m a recovering
addict. My model of love is barbed
wire wrapped tight around
a crumbling orchid, a rose
shoved through the holes of brass
knuckles. I am ripped petals bleeding
pollen, a broken womb. He’s trying
to repair these lips but I’m not
having any of it. I’m just buying time
to run away
and taking every inch of his skin
while I can.


Cotton Mouth


This is only temporary. He ought to know it
but the way he holds me when he thinks I’m sleeping
–I just can’t.
My tongue crawls into the corner of my cotton mouth
jaw, grows mothballs, and I just smile
and kiss him back.


Day Sixteen–pantoum


Why don’t they tell me why fevers persist
and sleepless tragedies trace your lips?
Empty sheets; so I pull at your skin in dreams
but sleep alone and grind my teeth instead.

Sleepless tragedies do trace your lips
so I paw at your maladies, lick at your wounds
yet I sleep alone, grinding my teeth instead
of gripping your skin in a flush of lust.

I paw at your maladies and lick at your wounds.
Empty sheets between pulling at your skin in dreams
and gripping your skin in a flush of lust–
Why don’t they tell me why fevers persist?


pantoum. ]


Flower Mouth


My mouth is full
of flowers when I start
to talk to you. I spit
orchids and lap up
roses, but phlox grow
wild down my spine
and spider out like
weeds, like parasitic
thoughts feeding
off my skin.

They always tell me
my skin is so soft, fed
I think
by the hot house of hate
brewing in my blood. but
It comes out like nectar,
sweet like honeysuckle
to the tongue, licked
lightly with intense

I no longer know
how to love,
to read emotion
like hot pressed words
on paper. It’s not
black and white.
It’s red and dripping,
like blood from bitten lips.


[ grad school is consuming my soul. but it’s always over. ]



I drape my skin over your skin,
like an afghan I let my limbs
fall limp and heavy on your chest
and I sleep with my lips
nestled firmly into your neck.
but I wake up empty
wrapped in empty sheets,
that half of the bed empty
like the rotten pit
of a peach. I am the spilled
seeds of a plush pomegranate
flushed the color of fever
blood, bleeding out
out. I am
all chapped lips
and sleeping alone.


every time I catch up, I fall back behind. poo. ]


Mine–day twelve


You can
have my skin, my
bones, my excess flesh. You
can have my hot breath on your neck.
but I’ll

keep my
itching veins, my
fever flushed blood, and these
words–the speaking of my marrow.
They’re mine.


[ double cinquain. no other prompt. ]