And Holy Crap, I’m Proud of This

I can’t decide
if I’ve been writing love poems
or anthems for the last
year or so.

And when Pablo was whispering of
my skin like summer
and when William said my lips were like pilgrims
begging to be purged of sin,
I never heard their words in
your voice.

Ed is singing
and I am vibrating
with tears,
with frustration,
anger,
and a little bit of giving up.

Because I can crave lips on my neck,
I can crave your fingers digging into my hips,
my legs on either side,
our hips toasting one another,
and we were never
we may never be

close

enough.

Does not make me any less pure.
Does not make me any less of the girl
I was hours before.
Garden locked;
well-wishing.

Pennies dropped,
over and over.
And I am an anthem author,
I am poem of masochism.

I am bloody mess after murder.
I am heart broker.

I am collector
of tear jars,
firefly eyes,
and steady blood flow.

And I want to smear my love
over you like language:
swallow you in simile,
melt into you like metaphor,
be the alliterated aroma therapy
on your skin,
and simultaneously
you are etching our names
into the backs of our hands,

your scar is my favorite.
You’ve branded my name in
and I am
synonym for love.

And you are synonym for hope.
And I don’t know
if I’ve been writing love poems
or anthems for the last couples of months or so.

But I know
roses are red
and I’ll pledge my allegiance
to you.

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