a love poem for once 

I’m so used to writing out of sadness, that I’m unsure how to write about you. I’ve written about dark places and empty faces. How ex-lovers stripped colour from my world like I was nothing more than a scrapped canvas in their art exhibit. I’ve found difficulties in wording how you’ve slowly brought it back. That with each kiss on my lips placed by yours is filling each blank space in my heart like watercolour, bleeding love into every crack.

When one is so used to finding beauty in darkness, they’re often blinded by the light.

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I am not the girl of your dreams 

I have not and never will be the girl of your dreams. There will be days when I will hardly be your girl at all. That’s why I tell you that I’m no good because I want you to know it.

It’s not because I will not love you nor is it because I will leave. It’s because I may hold your heart too tight and crush it without notice or care. Or sometimes it will seem like I was never even there. I have a tendency to burn myself by holding flames that should never have been lit in the first place. 

I have burns in places that are scarred memories of the time I let myself burn where memories had withered, yet I stood until I was nearly ash. 

Please believe me when I say that I will not leave you. That is to say that when I do, it’s not because I did not love you. It’s because I loved you more than myself and did not want you to know me anymore than you do now. 

I am no good. I am afraid to love you as your smile screams to me like gasoline and I’m an untamed flame waiting for a spark. Your heart burns like a candle wick and I’m just looking for a reason to see in the dark. 

she had lips of rose petals

She had spoken with silken words, and her tongue could spin thread better than any seamstress. With lips as delicate as rose petals, I watched them… wondering what roses taste like.

Though roses have thorns, and with thread comes needles. It was inevitable that eventually I would draw blood through her hands. It was unexpected that I would impale myself on such beauty, as to where I was afraid that my blood would taint the silk or wilt her roses.

But it was my hands that drew blood, she was never close enough to be near when it drips – you cannot ruin what lays not within your grips.