End of the road
So they say
A cliff's edge
Nothing below but
The frothing sea
Waiting on a whim
To be blown away by the wind
Never knowing what you'll see
That your last breath could be your first
That there's a million stars out there
All glistening
Like the tears on your mother's face
When she watches your coffin
Lowered into your grave
The dew droplets
On the front lawn
Of a little house somewhere
Home to a girl and her dogs
A girl who survived the fall

If I'm your closest friend
Then you deserve someone else
Someone who won't fall in love
When there's no love to be had
I'm sorry

I want to get tattooed someday
Maybe it's masochism
Maybe it's self love
Covering up my scars or
Painting on my body
Showing myself that I am something that can be beautiful
Skin is canvas
In the sense that it weathers
Changes over time
Bears the cloth of the owner's actions
But it is not canvas
It does not exist solely to be impressed upon
Skin holds the soul
Binds together our flesh and bones
So what if I paint it
Blue and black and bleeding red
A pattern of roses across my chest
It's just another tale
Another consequence of my actions
Stitched into my physicality
Like freckles and moles and stretch marks
If it helps me love myself, then what's the point?

You haven't moved
in several minutes,
a perfect model,
as if it were your goal.
The sun filters through
gauze and lace,
the peculiar mid-morning
light that muscles its way
across the wall
in grasping splashes.
Your tea is steaming
in its high-waisted glass,
& I hear half-sounds
escaping from your room.
I am the reporter
of your brown eye,
writing this moment
to you even though
it's already gone.

Night sits on my chest
Squeezes poems out of me
And grinds my poor soul

im sick
blown full of holes then
congested
heat and cold
are my sun and moon
the night and day
a switch flippedv within seconds
the whole nine yards\
but the only yards of mine
are the tendrils of sickness
laid out like racetrack down my tongue
into my inner systems