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One word can change your life.

Tag: hope

Dreams and beasts burning hotter than the stars

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She is alone. This has been her fear all along. It is dusk on an open road and mountains and unmoving turbines and the moon.

There are more miles between here and there than she cares to admit. She won’t admit anything. The abandonment. The inadequacy. The wedding that shouldn’t have been. The affair. The family. The abuse. The divorce. The abandonment. The abandonment. The child in her arms that isn’t hers.

There are many beasts that walk these streets – bigger and burning hotter than the stars. The scars on her hands show how busy broken messy busy broken she has kept herself. She has kept herself. To herself. Toward herself. Away from herself. Abandonment. Tired. So tired.

She is alone. Alive but alone and what is living when you can’t hear another heart beating?

The places I have travelled, you

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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.

I am at home when I am drowning

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I am in love with a storm – dark and surly – masquerading as a gentle breeze. It is said that you can’t touch the wind, you can only let it move you. So spread your fingers and let it take you away; it will shift the ground beneath you, it will shake the dust. It will send pieces of you to places you’ve never been.

Let it blow. Bow to its sway.

Do not fear losing yourself. The rain will come in torrents of tears and sadness, looking for light between the clouds. I have learned not to fight the waters as if by struggling I only spur on the turbulence. My body is mostly water; I am one with the flood.

I am at home when I am drowning.

The sound will shatter you. No one will be there to hear the crumbling but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. They say lightning never strikes the same place twice. Be wary of this; there aren’t many who can take the same blow twice. Roll with the punches of thunder. Accept that the wind will be knocked from your lungs; you will be knocked off your feet.

Bandage your bruised ribs. Bind your breasts – chest – and absorb the rumble of rage but do not crack. Do not flash. Do not thrash at the ground which carried you this far.

This storm has me completely surrounded and I am swept up in her chaos. I am no afraid despite the wreckage that will collect in its wake. I am my own storm – my own whip of wind and power – so bow to my sway. Bend with these battering gusts or be broken. Do not simply wait for me to pass through.

Come with me and I will move with you too.

Will you sit with me for a while?

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She calls me “love” like I have her home beneath my skin – like my veins are somewhere she could crawl up into and never leave. I call her “beautiful” like she has gold dust beneath her fingernails – like everything she’ll come to touch cannot remain as it was. But she will remain. She will stay. She will say she is homesick and I’ll know that she wants to be kissed gently like “Will you sit with me for a while? Will you hold my hand like it’s only you that’s keeping me from falling apart?” So I welcome her lips and her fingers like I’m opening the door.

I adore her.

I don’t know if my skin is good enough for her to live in. There are marks on the walls and stains from other lovers and if you run your fingers along certain parts you’ll find dust and memories that haven’t been moved in a while. There’s an attic where I keep the good times and I know if she ever opens it she’ll doubt how good she is. The basement is dark and cold and I hope she never wanders down there alone. I keep my monsters chained up there. I know when they need to feed.

I will never ask her to offer herself for their appetite.

Some say love, it is a river… and there is too much water under this bridge to think of coming up for air. So I breathe her in. I do not think of drowning because this tumbling is immersed in her. We are the other where limbs meet; we are no longer two – too entwined to swim apart. A part of me has always known that this will be our end. A surrender to what is, a dependence on what will be. We will endure. Here. In this home – with both our heartbeats in my bloodstream.

Perhaps this is love.