you are a shard of glass, cut between
the palms of my hands.
cutting deep, and surging
into my veins.
the bitter smell of blood
… haunting my taste for
reality.
you are a scar, white,
sensitive to the touch.
pure as the sleeping child who still
dreams there are, places
she can run to; hide,
with monsters
who comfort her.
you are a memory, encased in my
imagination.
created by the cruel truths
only the dead. the dying… understand.
you are smoke that fills my lungs,
leaving me gasping for air; life.
my bones tremble with a longing to
move next to yours again,
our blood boiling with love.
this is what winter has taken from me:
that singular heat of your small
breast in the cup of my hand…
now.
you are the poison that taints
me. teases me, brings me forward, then
sets me back… further than I ever was
before.
but I am the living, the creator of my
dreams, the inventor of my schemes.
creating my own sabotage of self.
