See I have burnt too many letters in the past to take words for granted again.
So when I have finally mustered the courage to write to you, know that it is the product of words I’ve left unsaid.
My words make love to each other like estranged souls Even if most ears don’t get a chance to hear the music they have to offer; just sitting there in the cold, waiting under blankets of snow.
Singing, to your heartbeat.
The fire in me may not compare to the fire you bring but I am also oceans whose depth can drown your spark and wear it like my favorite shirt.
Because you see, home has become like sandbags.
Running and slipping out of my hands, taking away parts of me I didn’t know existed.
After all, I am just a concoction of things I long to be, forcing myself to take the pen because the words that consume me refuse to shatter the glass walls I’ve built around me.
Some days I am a bad tasting mixture of oily hair and puffy eyes mixed with fine scotch and fake smiles.
Like the verses of unspoken poems that I may never hear; hiding underneath a surface that has stories just waiting to be heard.
Other days I feel like a repetition of metaphors drawing different tangents off of my skin just so I can feel beautiful again.
But most days.
Most days I feel power in my veins and beauty in my blood ,and on those days,
Admire me from afar.
Coming close is like wearing Satan’s heart on your sleeve and praying for angels to come save you.
So on days I am on my knees asking you to stay,
I don’t wish to tattoo insecurity on my lips again.
Angels only come to earth to get closer to hell and demons? They’re more like friends anyway.