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Literature Text
how much of you do I own
the crescents between
your fingers
, the inflection of your voice,
your opinions on Descartes
and physics and the
colour pink,
will you spill them into my hands
like red wine,
can I call them mine
the crescents between
your fingers
, the inflection of your voice,
your opinions on Descartes
and physics and the
colour pink,
will you spill them into my hands
like red wine,
can I call them mine
Literature
Hyperaware
I know the thumping of blood in my fingers,
the twinge in my back,
the tension behind my calves far too well.
The bristle of cold is too much
but the silence without the fan is suffocating.
My blankets are too heavy,
settled over my torso like the rock in my chest
but I can’t sleep without the weight.
This awareness is a manifestation of my longing;
for your hands in my hair,
your warmth at my spine,
your shoes on my floor.
This is what I feel when I can’t feel you –
palpitations, vibrations,
fixations that drive me to insomnia.
Only the trains are any comfort,
plowing away into the night
screaming here I am; there I go
Literature
inconsolable,
i
buried my skin
in my gut
in the flowerbed
of my intestines so
i could hold out
being open and raw
and feeble
long enough
for my flypaper lungs
to seep you in
and spit you out
into my bloodstream
as you pass through
the cardiac chambers
that bound me to
you
Literature
phantoms from a sleepless mind
most nights,
it takes a war to close
my eyes, & even then i
still see monsters.
my mind is a cemetery
full of whispers
best not mentioned
(because you'd never
believe me if i told you).
i just want to be free.
to wake up with a
craving for sunshine &
supernovas nestled in my
rib cage, instead of thorns
beneath my skin & bones
between my teeth.
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I love this one
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Comments18
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i like what you did there with the commas. 
and the ending rhyme is pretty.
and the ending rhyme is pretty.