xxiii.
last night, you left
punctures in my skin. bullets
fired from your tongue, and
my teeth are cracked
from where i tried to swallow
them whole.
my mouth is a casket,
negative space swollen
with wounds that ricochet.
this morning, i ran
my tongue over the ridges
on the roof of my mouth.
i will remember each one.
i will count the tears as if
they are gifts, reminders
that i will never again open
myself to you, and that
my blood tastes of your
regret.
(h.a)
xxii.
i want to be
your first fire:
i want to be the first lick
of flame upon your naked wrist,
setting your veins alight with
blue fire, cool paralysis.
my heat will seep into the
bloodlines beneath your cheeks,
split into the inflamed whisperings
of my name under your skin;
itching, aching, burning, scarred.
i want you to feel the trembling
premonition of dried heat under
heavy eyelids, and be afraid
of how i did consume you.
(h.a)
xxi.
you are each half –
written poem and dead
metaphor,
each thought dried
into words wrought
from overwork
in trying to mould
something which will not
yield.
(h.a)
sure! <3 but it might be easier asking me off anon? do you have any other criteria or anything? (or does anyone have ideas based off this?)
asked by Anonymous
xx.
there will be days that bleed
from the oldest corners of your heart,
with tired muscle strained
beneath the wear of ligament and
forgotten wounds.
there will be days that ache
with the dull weight of time
in your bones, every regret
built into the hollows
of your knuckles as you crack
them, once by one.
if you want to cry,
cry. you will
tremble. the earth will shake
between your ribs: lightning
will crack between your teeth.
you will breathe broken, with
the thrum of half the world’s torn
wing fluttering in your mouth.
you will swallow it, and you will
fly.
(h.a)
