I'm keeping the last drop in the drawer
Beside me inside my bedside table
Where once both of our things littered
Atop that cheap Ikea wrongly assembled
Square that posed as a treasure chest
And doubled as dining table and trash can

The last drop of romantic feelings
That weren't dead on impact upon
The drunken uselessly endless aggressive
Words spat sitting at the kitchen table
Where I was fighting to be numb
And you were fighting to be loved

When I'm healthy enough to gear out of
Autopilot and back into attempting to try
Accepting the rush of human experience
I can put that drop under microscope
And get experimental with how to love
Without purposely trying to drown myself

painted her a red rose,
my love forever,
which would never wilt.

downpast where the divermin dont go
is an underwater sun
that casts a blackhole shadow
in to the fishes swim
but they donnot swim out
where oh where do they fishes go
after theybin drowngone in the shadow
after theybin infosucked by the blackhole
i say i dont know
but some days i think i seem them
floating on the cloud forms
as crows

People are becoming warier because people are becoming scarier and out there they're daring you to question their motives.
You can't hide from the madmen
so
be glad then that you can run.
I think I'm done with the lot of them
the crazies and the madmen
the wannabees and the just plain bad men,

I
am looking for a sanctuary
away from society
preferably a library
where I can
bury myself in books.

The conch was blown.
The air vibrated.
The birds spread their wings and took off.
Life began to grind its gears again,  
wars, deaths, and elopements became headlines once more.

'fear death by drowning'
and yet Cohen sang
''only drowning men can see him''

a grim reminder
that someone is always behind you
ready to pull the rug out from under
your feet.

But someone saved me
and
gave me another chance,

it could have been
Christ or his brother
I can't think of anyone other
who would have bothered.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” someone asks
“Their name’s Bea,” I reply
“I support that,” they hesitate
“You are so brave.” they add

I never saw their lips as a political statement
Nor did I think holding hands in the front seat
while a friend is puking by the side of the road
Was some kind of revolution

How romantic is it
That our story will be etched
Not in some Neruda poetry book
But a professor’s first textbook
Or a college student’s 2 am essay

When I said I was in love
You thought it meant I was hungry
Not for touch or for pleasure
But for justice and freedom
I didn’t know that
When I run my fingers down her neck
It would be tied to a long Twitter thread

I never saw my love as a battleground
A metaphysical exploration of sexuality
What’s Marxist about the way their eyes
disappear when they smile?
What’s so intersectional about
Our entanglement at the back seat
Or our hands holding in front

I never thought I would be so brave
At my most fragile state
So political
In my most dumbstruck ways
So woke
When I’m asleep in her embrace