When I Am With You I Forget Who I Am,

When I am with you I forget who I am,

I am only who I can be.

And for a instant I do not mind being held.

For a moment existing is a pleasure,

For a moment I exist on purpose,

Not by mistake or on accident.

I don't know if all this wanting is supposed to have a point but I cannot help but give into it anyways.

If there is any greater joy in life than being desired by that which you too desire I do not know it. For what a miracle reciprocation is.

They tell me too many of my poems are about love these days, but they don't know that the kindest thing you have ever done for me is given me something else to write about

I don't know if you make me feel alive but you look at me like I exist, and I cannot help but marvel at the possibility that you might too recognize this phenomenon.

Sometimes I feel so ghost I am shocked that you are able to hold me outside of memory.

Sometimes when I cannot bear the bite of my own name on my tounge, I borrow yours.

Only for a while.

And I trust that you will not mind.

I trust that you will understand.

You always do.

~ If you told me that you loved me I would not believe you but it is still my only reoccurring dream

The silence in the aftermath of an apology is a conniving thing

Greedy for forgiveness

Pulling assurances from you before you are ready to give them

They say forgiveness is a small price to pay for peace

But the question is who's?

Is my clemency enough to buy redemption for 2?

Are your sorries enough to purchase you freedom from guilt?

And if I cannot find my peace without granting you yours too

Then so be it

A lie is a small price to pay for justice

I promise myself I will unforgive you

That I will unaccept the apology somehow

That the sorries you mail in cheap white envoples will be returned to sender

That the meager words you offered me that I swallowed for the sake of hospitality will not be digested

I tell myself your suffering is worth the cost of mine

That if enough of your guilt devours you from the inside out, you may soon become emptier than I am

But we are both being eaten alive

For some things in this life are insatiable

Are merciless

For this we both know

So let it be be a waiting game

To see who holds out longest

Before mercy takes us

For herself

~ i do not care if you are sorry anymore (02.21.21)

"I miss you."

"It is easy to miss someone when you are lonely and the night is quiet. You crave company and companionship. You do not crave me."

I want to say

"Missing you is never easy."

I want to say

"I crave you always. It is you, always."

But instead I say,

"Yes, I miss you then. But I miss you most when I am surrounded by people and happiness. Because it is then my heart aches deepest with the knowledge that there is no one else I would rather share this joy with."

~ even in my dreams you do not respond (rewriting the conversation we never had)

I would like to be loved

And perhaps this is selfish of me

But if the most selfish thing I do

In this life

Is long

To be wanted

So be it

For I have already

Burned for this sin

My desire a fire

That has left me scarred

And my heart

Disfigured

The night is always young somewhere

The darkness

Still a child

That may yet be taught

How to hold love

In the spaces between its teeth

I had a dream that the king and the queen of a small country had a daughter. They needed a son, a first-born son, so in secret, without telling anyone of their child’s gender, they travelled to the nearby woods that were rumoured to house a witch.

They made a deal with that witch. They wanted a son, and they got one. A son, one made out of clay and wood, flexible enough to grow but sturdy enough to withstand its destined path, enchanted to look like a human child. The witch asked for only one thing, and that was for their daughter.

They left the girl readily.

The witch raised her as her own, and called her Thyme. The princess grew up unknowing of her heritage, grew up calling the witch Mama, and the witch did her very best to earn that title.

She was taught magic, and how to forage in the woods, how to build sturdy wooden structures and how to make the most delicious stews. The girl had a good life, and the witch was pleased.

The girl grew into a woman, and learned more and more powerful magics, grew stronger from hauling wood and stones and animals to cook, grew smarter as the witch taught her more.

She learned to deal with the people in the villages nearby, learned how to brew remedies and medicines and how to treat illness and injury, and learned how to tell when someone was lying. 

Every time the pair went into town, the people would remark at just how similar Thyme was to her mother. 

(Thyme does not know who and what she is. She does not know that she was born a princess, that she was sold. She only knows that one night after her mother read her a story about princesses and dragons, her mother had asked her if she ever wanted to be a princess.)

((Thyme only knows that she very quickly answered no. She likes being a witch, thank you very much, she likes the power that comes with it and the way that she can look at things and know their true nature.))

The witch starts preparing the ritual early, starts collecting the necessities in the winter so they can be ready by the fall equinox. Her daughter helps, and does not ask what this is for, just knows that it is important.

The witch looks at Thyme, both their hands raised into the air over a complicated array of plants, tended carefully to grow into a circle, and says, sorry.

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