Empty streets give me comfort.
They take me to moments when I wasn't so hard on myself.
When I wasn't so small.
You hover around me like a vulture, and I don't know if it is because I am a place of rest or something for you to devour.
(I have plenty of bones for you to pick at.)
My traumas come from a childhood of violent hands and empty "I love you"s.
The words I heard were bulletholes.
The hugs; a way to bury me alive.
(If you wanted me dead, why did you take the knives away?)
Disappointment looks so much like my mother. Around the eyes mostly.
Fistfuls of sleeping meds doesn't scare my head at all.
(Why won't you just leave me be?)
I look down the barrel of an iron masterpiece and realize we are the same.
I am a loaded gun.
Twenty one years isn't long, but it's my lifetime.
And a lifetime is a long time to be this heavy.
Bleach and rum is my go-to, trying to wash out the stains my mother's words painted across my heart and my mind.
It resembles bloody legs and dying roses.
(She always said red was her favorite color.)
You are a breath of fresh air I didn't realize I was gasping for.
You are Icarus.
Soaring on the tattered wings your father made you as a child.
(You fly too close to the sun, not because you want to die, but because you want to know what it feels like to fall.)
Loneliness is no stranger to you.
(I hope we can be alone together.)
I'm sorry my sun sets harder and it makes me scared to open the windows.
(It's only a window if there's glass to break, otherwise it's just another hole in the wall.)
My mother turned me to brass and hot coals.
I sharpen my mind on the whetstone of my heart.
My tongue is a two edged sword, dripping with poetry and anger, yet I point it at no one but myself.
(I love to see my reflection in the polished iron.)
My apologies for the blacksmith I am, hands darkened from the weapons I had to make to survive.
(I can outcraft any man.)
I pour my tears into the lake, but it is becoming dry.
(Do you see nimuës body?)
I dance in the rose bushes of your words, the thorns tearing at the skin of my thoughts.
"Why don't you dance somewhere softer?" you ask.
Cause when the sun goes down, and you're done burning in it's golden glory, your body comes back to my lunar eclipse.
Bodies equally worn and the anvil of our hearts just as heavy.
It feels okay.
-your eyes may be brown, but they still remind me of the ocean.
