Vultures And Other Vulnerabilities.

Worth Writing About.

                              The boy who hated himself so, that he forgot that I could love him. 

Your hands are blazing down my spine like a supernova,

Left in your wake, these spirals of kisses:
This is your fiery trail.
You sink your teeth delicately into my lower lip-

I am almost ashamed to say I crave you.

But having you will never surpass it: nothing can destroy this shaking
even when it shocks me in the wake
of someone else's burning.

If we mix my colours with your colours would we get something
as toxic as hydrofluoric acid?
Would it erode through the parts of us we have never
given the grace of writing sonnets about?

Could you stop bursting inside of yourself as though you
were lonely and self-destruction was the only thing that could
love you?

You. A shadow to something I have never wanted to face before,
You, the embodiment of everything I have learnt to fear.

Because we have stood through earthquakes that upheld more than
just your lonely catastrophes,
You can regurgitate shame like a snake vomiting up its
pray and I will still love you.
Yes, even if you didn't let the poor animals go with each vein accounted
for and legs twitching in fear.
I will still find a way to love you.
I don't know how to do anything else.

I can orchestrate my own submission.
These empty sheets of music are every fibre of me,
I will show you just how much it hurts when I want to feel you,
resting like a pen upon paper over me.

Your hands are examining me layer from layer, each surface
getting touched in ways besides that of what the hands can
and cannot do.
You're getting closer and closer to the ache throbbing at
my collar bones and suddenly-

My lips are parted, sighing-
as though you were my largest sense of grief,
Like you were the biggest poem inside of me.
There is nothing in the world I would rather be writing about.

And that's coming from the girl who writes to
feel appreciated.