I Lost Track Of The Wounds

I lost track of the wounds

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was the one you gave me

In the end

The only one that mattered

Was you

In the end

It was the betrayal that slaughtered me

Before the blood loss

When your eyes sliced into my soul

Puncturing the vital organ

I was dead before your blade parted flesh

Ghost before my body hit the ground

~

In the end

My final breath

An exhale of your name

That still tasted like home on the tounge

My blood forgetting to be afraid

In your familar palms

~

But if I am spirit

Why I am the one haunted?

By you

Or some part of you that perished

With me

Begging for mercy

I do not know how to grant you

~

And if you lived

Why did I find you

Haunting your own shell

When I returned to

Forgive you

~

~And Caeser Thinks: If Betrayal Is A Kiss, I am Glad I Tasted It Last From Your Lips

@reveriesofawriter KNOWS WHATS UP♡

Today I am thinking about Alex Claremont-Diaz with the classic bisexual inability to sit properly.

1.

if love is a wound

ours is still tender

still choking on its own blood

if heartbreak is a scar

ours is still scabbing

still

healing

still prone to breaking open

when your name blisters my tounge

when your memory skates across the surface

of my skin and tears away any knowledge

i have acquired on

how to summon the unbreaking

and i fight to recall how to heal again

and again

and

again

fight to recall

the will

2.

dawn spills over the brim of the horizon

trickles through my fingers

i try to stop the light from over flowing

into the basin of the sky

but I fail

each time again

and in this way I recall your leaving

every

morning

but it does not

stop

me

from

trying.

i am so

sorry

i miss

you

3.

tell me

when the raindrops fell at your feet

my dear

did they deliver every love note

i left scattered in the thunder clouds

for you

my mistress of liquid dreams and plenty

are you dripping in my

promises

yet?

(writing sensless lines until poetry comes back to me)

sometimes a poem is just a poem and sometimes a poem is actually a confession and sometimes a poem is a person and sometimes a poem is a cardinal. sometimes art is just art and sometimes art is actually therapy and sometimes it’s a pipe and sometimes it’s also not a pipe. 

sometimes the text is “got home safe!” and sometimes the text is actually saying i already miss the way your hair feels in my hands and sometimes the text is a warning and sometimes the text is thank you for caring. sometimes you are on the phone with your friend and you’re talking about curious monkeys but you’re also both admitting how lonely you are but you’re also both talking about how love can be a bicycle and sometimes it is not a conversation it’s an intervention and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s a poem and sometimes it’s not a conversation it’s an art piece and sometimes it’s just a conversation but more often it’s holding hands without touching

& sometimes you are in an argument about the dishes but none of the things you are mad about are about dishes, they’re about the stuff around the dishes and the hands and the soap and how he smelled on sunday of another girl. sometimes the dishes aren’t even dishes they’re blankets and sometimes they’re burnt food and sometimes they’re your favorite book. sometimes the song isn’t a song sometimes the song is a manipulation and sometimes the song is just bad and sometimes the song is stuck in my head from you singing it in bed and sometimes it is “i listened to this so i could learn what you like” and sometimes it is “i showed you this because i want to also show you my palm lines and my heart and the inside of my head.” 

sometimes you are dancing alone but you are not dancing alone because you are picturing seeing her in a green velvet dress across the room from you, and sometimes you are dancing with ghosts, and sometimes you are dancing with your mother’s voice. sometimes it is not a dance it is a walk and sometimes it is not a walk it is lying in bed and sometimes it is not lying in bed, it is not-dying, which is often good enough for survival purposes. 

& sometimes you say  oh, take a cookie with you when you go and you mean that i should take a cookie and sometimes you mean - take me with you, also. sometimes it is just burning something and sometimes it is burning something and sometimes it is burning a lot of other things first. sometimes it is just a shirt and sometimes it’s what you wore when you kissed her and sometimes it’s what you wore when you didn’t kiss her and sometimes it’s what you wore to the movies when you saw your last in-theatres movie without knowing it would be your last in-theatres movie. 

& sometimes the poem is just a poem and sometimes the poem is my earring in your hand and sometimes the poem is your smell and sometimes the poem is calligraphy and sometimes the poem is good lord you are addicting and sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is unfiltered yearning and sometimes the poem is an anvil and sometimes the poem is - can i write a home, can you crawl in, can we be like little ferns, all curled up in bed. sometimes the poem is a poem and sometimes the poem is a dance and sometimes the poem is saying - no, i will skip showering, if you need me there, i’m coming.

Today I am thinking about Alex Claremont-Diaz with the classic bisexual inability to sit properly.

"There's a special place in hell for people like you, you know that?"

"You bet. The V.I.P. section, baby."