What makes you beautiful is not how thin or thick you are
Its not how many lips you have kissed
Or guys you have touched
What makes you beautiful is you

Love your curves and your rolls
Your small lips and prominent hips
Every scratch, scar and stretch mark
Is what makes you,

You.

full stomach, aching chest
i try again to push my fingers through the screen of my phone
(i just want to brush my fingertips against yours while we call)
i am full of desire
for conflict = love vs. lust, joy vs. death
meaning
i'm not quite sure what i want some nights,
but i always want to be next to you

love poems make me nauseous sometimes, looking back at all the past ones i wrote thinking the feeling might last
but naively, perhaps, i'll say that you feel very different  
i'm not afraid either way...
(okay. afraid of losing you, too)

A visitor,
not a resident
once again.

You walk in and out
as though it was a revolving door.
You visit me as though I am a sovoneour shop,
just to see how much one would miss you.

My heart has become exhausted of
the constant switch between the void and the presence.

For you make a vacation out of me,
when I ought to be a sanctuary.
You turn me into a hotel room,
when I ought to be home.

My name was not the one that was to be traced on sand and washed away by the waves
but the one you would engrave with ink on your skin.

I am oxygen
I am water
Not momentary
or unncessary
like the label of the presence of expiry you labeled me with
Or your temporary devotion.

one small thing may be enough



each day comes layered



some pain persists

slowly





changes



with some interventions



have you heard about the brigands?