Poetry

There's no heaven for you here.

"Stop dying your way into my poetry,
You are not a corpse,
And this is not your coffin.

So often,
I have held your bleeding palms in mine,
Turned your bruised knees into bodies of art,
Made roses of the red under your eyes.

So often,
You have been wounded,
Been torn apart in battlegrounds of other loves,
Ran back to the only home you knew.

Back to lines of poetry,
Back to being a flower in a garden made only for you,
To sunsets so beautiful you forget how to breathe,
To kiss that taste
Like so much honey,
So much summer.

I know better now,
Than to open myself funeral home for you.
I know better now.
Than to bury you in the back of my throat,
To speak you in every word."
    -Reena B.