this was the day she had
when she would walk into the
the dust of his ashes
the taste of him finally
from her tongue
my labour of love is
and as for want
i learned to
i say that I want to be free
that I want you to disappear
but every single night that
i climb into bed with
i prove myself a liar and
hypocrite and an
addict to a
of my own
there was a time
for biting your tongue
for sliding into the shadows,
swallowing lumps in your
as if the world cared about
what made you cry
damnit, just write.
write as if the beat of your fractured heart depends on it.
write as if revelations run cold and aphotic through your veins.
this is not the place for perfection. this is not the time for lies.
this is 2am – time for unapologetic oblivion, irreverence and wild rebellion,
ink smeared fingers, dark music and darker dreams.
She was the first woman you ever truly loved.
She blazed into your life like white-hot lightning,
disintegrated your carefully laid plans and
everything you knew disappeared into the dust.
As she looked you in the eyes, she grabbed your hands,
placed them on her hips, burned her name onto your soul and
the air crackled in ecstatic synastry.
You were born again.
And you were loved by a woman who feared nothing,
not lies, not scorn, not death itself.
Seeking no approval, she bows down only in reverence of her own becoming.
She is at one with herself here, tracing fingers down skin damp with
dew and sweat before reaching to the sky as if
she herself makes the heavens roar,
then sinking to her knees in communion with the earth,
hands clasped over her heart, as the forest prays to her.
Like every barefoot wanderess before,
the scars on her flesh tell stories of the moon and
of bones and of dark places
you have never travelled.
You can’t own her any more than you could own a storm.
You can only fall in love with the rain.