i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

Perhaps,
I'd release the negativity
of you,
by writing.
Page by page.
But that would waste too many lines.
Too many chapters.
Tree by tree.
Our oxygen is precious,
and you already suffocated my heart.

All you saw was me...but you never really saw me. You took my body but was afraid of my soul.

You were so weak and demoralized, faded, lost in disguise...but so was I. I have all these little pieces taken away, I was ravaged, and was growing in pain.

Through eyes that exposed so much I never knew, I've never met. Fighting demons every night I laid beside, I was beautifully wrecked.*

S.B

I linger at skin that clings
and hollow bones
that catch in the moonlight,
pausing at mirrors
that look more like
still-life paintings-
an empty gold vase
over here where my heart
used to reside,
a fresh green sprig
where there were once arms.

There is a sickness
sleeping in my hypothalamus,
heaving with every breath,
every step, every heartbeat.
I try to look at it
and it slips like sand
through my closed mind.

I smile, and it's not
my smile anymore.

I used to feel obligated to make my pain worse
So he would notice
And stop saying that
But I’m not a mirror
Reflecting the bad side of him
I’m not a mirror
I’m a person

I’m a sponge
Forgiving
Absorbing
Accepting
Infinite
Cleansing
Bigger on the inside

He would call me,
at 1 and sometimes 2 in the morning.
For our love was a secret,
too bold for the world
so we would whisper
stories in silence
and yet stories they were.

She couldn't decide who she wanted to be,
so she was everyone.

She couldn't decide what she wanted to do,
so she did everything.

This
was better than being no one;

This
was better than doing nothing,

as many are, and many do...

She
was not them.

She
was different.

Suddenly... Your idea of someone is shifted...irreparably, so it seems. At first. At the least. Maybe over time you'll forget, somewhat. That is to say, whatever disappearing moment may transition into a partial, fickle memory.
You will recall it, inconveniently, possibly with slight inconsistency, and they will claim, should you choose to mention it, some sort of factual discrepancy.
It may well hover, all the way to the end of your personal eternity, and it may go unnoticed, covered by each new epiphany, layering in thin, single coats to be reminiscently noticed as a shadow.
No matter how deep into someone's secrets you may go,
There is always more to know.
        
          There is always more to know.

2.23.2017