just going on

there's this story you want to tell. you're pretty sure there was a moral and you're pretty sure he'd like it but you can't remember how the story goes. but you're not worried.

it starts like this.
    it starts like this.
        it starts like this.

(i)
you have too many houses and not enough homes and the terracotta buildings have sunk so far into your skin, you don't think the earthy smell will ever leave you alone. your favourite place in the world is with a pair of green eyes and blue ones -- and maybe a brown pair or three, if they're not too busy today -- under a canopy of grey sky and greg the gargoyle.

instead, you've gotta be happy with blue walls and wood panelling and a green door.
             you push it open and fall into a surprised sea.
                                       

and suddenly, you've found a kind of home you've never known.



(ii)

your pulse flutters like there are butterflies trapped under your skin. it would explain the black and blue, wouldn't it? but you bite back the early spring and he smiles at you, soft and slow and symmetrical except for that one dimple in his right cheek, and you kind of stopped breathing ten minutes ago. he says a line -- and you're too slow to wonder now how many women he's used this on, how many women he's been with, how many women he's loved -- and you can only blink as he runs because, when the fuck did you ever become something worth pulling a line on anyway?

                he runs,

                and you've always, always been good

                                                                          at hide and seek,

                so you chase him down,

                and make the biggest

                                                                          mistake of your life,

                because he was playing tag and you

                                                                          aren't too great at that,

                sweetheart.

(iii)

there's a purple dress and a beautiful woman and you don't know who she is. the silver lining to every cloud and sea and mirror but you just want to rip it out of this one, turn it into a cloak and make yourself this gorgeous forever. there's a purple dress and a beautiful man and one night to make it real. your face would match your dress if anyone found out but you think he's worth the risk he's worth everything this is all for you.

you buy a pair of black stilettos and a flower clip,

and your best friend buys you a velvet purse.

                                                                              there

                                                                                       are

                                                                              three weeks left.

(iv)

she talks to you till four a.m.,

and you write him mocha letters in red ink

of all the things you can't say,

                                            it's short and concise,

because that's what he taught you,
and experience teaches you best.

(v)

you feel like you're about to puke all over his perfect, cream floor. he wouldn't get offended even if you did because it feels like there's glass clawing it's way from your heart and out your throat to decorate his floors with miserable crystals.

there's a purple dress and a beautiful moment where you hoped it would be different.
you were wrong again.


(vi)
he's the kind of guy who gets lost in the details but never forgets he's in a painting and he's drowning in it, you know, drowning in colours. and you, you're the kind of girl who paints and paints but never gets it right; there's always something wrong. he'll tell you it's this dot over here, why is it here? and you'll say, that's the dot, the dot that's you and how you make me feel and everything that you are and he'll still say why, why is it here? and how do you explain then?

you don't.

(vii)
you've never been good at holding things together; not yourself, not her and not anything else. and he can't keep it going; not himself, not her and not anything else. he's a beautiful man in a blue shirt and things are falling apart. you think that if you press your fingertips into his bare back enough, that maybe the whorls on your thumb could be enough of a map.

but there is no map to doing this right,
and you're both doing it wrong.

(viii)
you've never been whole,
but he's pretty fucking broken too.
(he's fucking pretty broken too)

and, maybe, all of your pe i c es will fit together and you wouldn't need to be fine, or whole, or flawless, or perfect. maybe, you could both just be you.

hope is the most fragile thing,
and it presses angel kisses to your sternum,
flickering with each of his smiles.

love you till you're whole

.
 i'm wearing this pendant, small and round and blue,
 you bought it for me at this carnival, and i snuck out to see you,
 and my dad had never been so angry
 and my lips still ache
 from where you kissed me
 and my cheek throbs,
 from his slap.

.
 you told me once that you weren't all that poetic,
 and i told you that sometimes it felt like i had butterflies,
 in my bloodstream and you pressed a kiss to my wrist
 and my neck, as my pulse fluttered wildly, like a dove
 in a gilded cage.

.
 you have, i say, really nice hands,
 and you cup me in them, like i'm a prayer,
 something important and to be blessed,
 and i feel like i'm worth something, that i can
 still be (w)hol(e)y.

.
 and i'm in the backseat of your car and it's
 not all that comfortable, the seat belt buckle
 is digging a cave into my back and the soft
 black material is pressing into me the way
 you do.

 stars blink and shine, reappear and disappear,
 in time to your staccato heartbeat,
 and the world is titled on an axis,
 stuck in permanent contemplation of you.

.
 if i knew how to love you whole again,
 i would.

flying colours

i think i'd like to make you a science.

at least then, i could recreate p e r f e c t l y the blue of your eyes,
                                                                        the gold of your heart,
                                                                              the tornado of your thinking.

i think i'd like to make you a math.

i could recreate a c c u r a t e l y the angle of your strength,
                                                       the slope of your shoulders,
                                                             the factors of your soul.

i think i'd like to make you a song,

i could recreate e x a c t l y the depth of your voice,
                                                the shards of your ego,
                                                      the glint of your sincerity.

i think i'd like to make you into something

quantifiable,

measurable,

tangible

but i'm glad you're not

this way, all these moments are frozen

just for me.

flutter

you're so close that i think that i could just s

                                                                  i

                                                                    n

                                                                      k

into your alabaster skin; so that the blue

of your trainers pools an ocean around

my feet, so that the beige of your trousers

melts into me like cream on coffee, so that

the red of your shirt spreads like a blush

across me.

and now i ask, how do i tell you?
there's silver fire and gold ice in
eternal salsa across my skin; all
that from just a smile.

how do i tell you?

my mind is in a perpetual autumn; 

monotone,  sepia leaves falling to the ground,

gathering up like gold dust,

or just plain old dust.

all it takes if for you to leave the room,

and it all disintegrates, you know,

all those beautiful, effervescent thoughts i have,

thoughts i could sew into stupid little love poems.

you're so close that i think,

butterflies will fly o u t of my mouth,

instead of the words i should be saying,

with the way you make my p ul s e

flutter.

almost-burnt apple pie

1.
so, there was this car. it was a nice car. black. sleek. handsome headlights.
      the only reason i liked it was because the
      thought of you driving it gave me shivers like
                                                   i'm in a personalised winter.

2.
i think it was your eyes that i fell for first, but i won't tell anyone. if i was more poetic, i'd say shit like how your eyes had all the days i pretended to smile and all the nights i cried in them. but i'm not. to be honest, they kind of remind me of my ceiling back when i was ten, the one with the stick-on glow in the dark stars on them.
                      i f
                          e
                             l
                               l for your eyes first, and your soul second and yeah, i can be pretty poetic.

3.
last night i had a dream about our car. you know, the black one. we were lying on the hood and pulling cliches like looking up at the stars. and you let your hands take up the space between mine, like shuffling grains of sand, and i dreamt that you told me you didn't believe in wishes. that, if you wanted something, you'd go out to get it.

i woke up alone.
it wasn't a sad dream.
but i was miserable anyway.

4.
i wanted to tell you something. it was probably something important. but my tongue doubled and twisted like a cherry stem or a vine and squeezed the words to oblivion. oblivion keep those words, oblivion can put those words where all the lost people go, where car keys go when you need them, where your left sock goes after the washing machine. i can make new ones.

they weren't important, anyway.

5.
when you're angry, you smile like knives. i wear the pants in this and i like to say that i'm always the one to find you. i am. but you're always the one to find me. and i'm the only one who's lost. your smile cuts apples into bite sized pieces and i don't lament that we're not adam and eve.

when you're happy, you smile like the sun.
we could bake an apple pie life together, if you'd like.

6.
no one's ever made me cry more than you do. 'broke my heart' is too light but 'breaking me' seems too harsh. you make me want to save myself, 'cause you're sure as hell not doing jack, to put on my rusted armour and fight the lions and wyverns and tarantulas curled around the back of my mind, because i could actually be worth something to someone.

no one's ever made me cry more than you do.
it's weird, but i don't regret anything.

fiat lux

god asked me to bow down,

so i did and he said, you are for adam.

in my peripheral vision, you are the brightest thing in heaven, 

and i said, yes. yes, i am his.

trembling palms meet in a palmer's kiss,

and you shied away with each step i took,

adam runs his fingers across my pulse,

and you watch with hungry, thirsty eyes.

my skin feels too hot and too tight,

and i want to burst through in a symphony of light,

so that you'll look at me, so that you'll see me,

even for a brief moment.

i wonder sometimes if you can hear it,

the pathetic thud-thud of my lone heart,

wonder sometimes if it matters, you press a thumb to my sternum 

to leave a wreath of purple flowers and i don't think it does.

i remember the apple tree and your wide, wide eyes,

as your fingers spread starlight across my ribs,

and between my thighs, and your voice, exultant,

gloria patri and you are so beautiful.

beautiful. that's what you are, so bright and pure,

and when i kissed you for the first time,

my tongue snaking around yours,

you tasted like fire and mornings and the sweetest fall.

you taught me to feel, to take,

and the first thing i did was spread myself all over,

your thousand-sun skin and drag out little noises,

with my hands and felt myself roast alive.

i writhe under the canopy of your wings and grace,

as you bless me with your hot mouth in all the most secret places,

throwing my head back, i shut my eyes and pray to soak you in,

the vowels of your name fill up my throat and adam's eyes are green.

my knees burrow in the ground, brackets to keep you grounded,

and my tongue paints a honeyed molass love, and you burn,

brighter than ever, brilliantly,

and eden watches you come undone, silent and salient.

you are the heat of fire and the cool of water,

your words are slippery slick and silver-tongued,

your touch is midas-blessed and golden,

and you are mine.

god told you to bow down,

obey them

and i was in your peripheral vision,

when you said, no, i will not.

and as god turned his wrath to you,

i kept you in the circle of my arms,

and stopped praying, trying to keep you 

from being swallowed by the sea of despair.

horrified, i watched something break,

and i watched my glorious morningstar,

shatter and shine with an impure light,

you turned into lucifer, the light bringer.

just when i don't think i know you anymore,

you stumble in, lips trembling and eyes flooding the earth for days,

and your fingertips mark springs of green and blue and purple,

on my arms and you say, i've never needed you more, and how do i resist?

i told you i love you,

and you brushed off my affection like a snakeskin,

and you wind down my arm, fangs sinking in,

sweet cyanide cider spilling from prayer-cupped hands.

adam's fingers trace my lips,

he walks away, cheeks stinging with shame

and anger,

in the shape of my hand.

michael pushes you through the gold gates,

and held me as hellfire burnt our hearts,

where you are, the fire only serving to illuminate the dark;

you took all the light of heaven and wrapped it around your broken grace.

i trace the red snakes around my wrists,

my lips become crimson with my heated kisses,

on your scars of love,

and if i kiss hard enough, i can almost taste you again.

i count each of my blessings carefully,

collecting them and coveting them,

and since you left,

there has been a grand total of zero.

my teeth bite the forbidden fruit, liquid lust burning,

and it gives me the courage to say,

i hate you; do not touch me; 

i am not for you, adam.

it should be harder to walk past those golden gates,

harder to leave eden and fall to earth,

but it's not, my morningstar,

it's not.

i left heaven for you,

and the gates of hell embraced me.

a/n: based on a dream and not meant to offend anyone. it's just creative licence and i'm sorry if anyone is offended by this.

we're going round in circles

1.
    i tried to write you a letter once,
       and i felt like spiders crawled out my throat,
    leaving cobwebs where all those words should've been;

        i tried to pass them off as silk,
     and i've never seen you so terrified.

2.
   you told me you were a growing boy,
      and i could feel you under my skin,
   you bloom, flowers of blue and purple,
      spring time love and part-time lovers,

   it is winter again,
     and you're taller than ever.

3.
  i dreamt that i told you what each crack in my skin meant,
      and you flooded me with your liquid kisses and pacific eyes,
  and called me your sahara.

      your eyes are thirsty now,
  and i am still your sahara.

4.
      the sun leaked blood secrets into the sky,
  and i watched the dawn arrive.
      he told me he loved me,
  and all i could say was goodnight.

5.
  you think you're funny
      and sometimes i think i'm the joke,
  i bite your punchline and fall,

      hook, line and
                             sink her.


6.
      you can't draw and i can't sing,
  but i write you love songs with my lips,
      and you make me mona lisa-smiles with your hands,

  and maybe, we don't need to be perfect,
      just happy.

a/n: sorry for the hiatus. exams and personal issues have reduced my muse to a whimpering mess.