You have my word

One word can change your life.

Tag: body

The places I have travelled, you

untitled-design

You say: you are poetry.

I say: you have me undone in three words.

You say: I don’t know what to say.

I say: don’t say anything.

You say: I am in love with a writer.

I say: I am in love with the sunrise. I am awake.

Like a train frames the movement of a bride on her wedding day,

so the sun only sets to frame the trail you leave in the darkness for me to find my way.

Your eyes. Like fireflies. Vibrant. Alive. Bright.

On my bucket list there stands: see the Northern Lights. Aurora Borealis.

That was before there was an us.

I could look at you and feel like I’d seen the world – like I’d met everyone there was to meet, like I’d tasted India and walked Rome and surfed Fiji and climbed Everest and loved every land I let my feet shake hands with.

Your hands. Like oak tree branches. Strong. They know their place. Safe.

I’m that chocolate lad. Not sweet like you’d think; that was never me.

I am dark, through and through.

I am my darkest when I am with you.

Bitter to those who aren’t accustomed to the taste, but you have let me melt on your tongue,

you have let my tongue melt the creases of your waist, the small of your back…

relax into me. I will hold you safe.

I don’t have fancy words to make you stay.

I don’t have instructions for a bad day.

I don’t know any languages other than my eyes to ask you not to leave.

I’ve never even been overseas.

Right now in this instance, it feels like we’re oceans apart so maybe that counts for something?

So when people ask me where I’ve been and what I’ve seen?

I’ll simply tell them I’ve travelled your spine, and scaled your ribs and held handfuls of breast

that I’m sure even the monks would profess

the gods made just for me.

The secrets my skin will never tell you

pexels-photo-112327

I am most alive in that wild moment before death. Eyes clocking every corner for possible escape. Heart racing but my legs not moving. Skin tingling.

I have more than just my name beneath this skin. More than painted skies; more than grey lines and worn out lies.

My veins are just seams unstitched too many times I’m afraid. I am frayed. Made up of needles and string and patches and tears and nobody wants a thing that isn’t whole. I am a blanket of holes.

I plant thorns and grow roses from my wrists. Glorious gushing gardens of delicate petalled tragedies. I have not yet been choked by weeds.

Follow these stretch marks while I tell you how I have grown into myself. How I have expanded to fill spaces others created. You would do well to fill your own space without shame.

Don’t think that this ink was injected into my pores. It has poured from my soul and soaked the silk that keeps all this story in. I am not trying to paint over my sins. I am smearing the start of chapters I’m scared to begin.

God calls this body temple. I call this a temple for the gods. Beautiful, only because the windows are stained glass and my lips are broken cross mounted on the face brick wall. Unmoving.

In the moment before death, I am unmoving whether I stay or go.