Posted in Poetry

The Problem

I guess that’s part of the problem,

when you obsess over something it never leaves.

It grows on you, not like cancer but like dodder.

It feeds on your love and passion and for a while it makes you beautiful.

 

That’s the second part of the problem.

You are beautiful.

You are beautiful in a way that makes a car wreck feel like breathing.

Your brand of pretty invites me home when home is a thought that has never existed.

 

You are beautiful.

Beautiful soul, beautiful skin, beautiful anger.

You’re so imperfect it hurts to touch you under the sunlight.

But the moon, oh the moon brings out new things that make you perfect.

 

I have loved you with every breath left in my body

and I’ve hated you in similar despair.

Your body is tinged with an anger too fragile to touch,

your mouth opens between breathless sobs no one can hear.

 

But I hear the tunes in your heart and the blood in your veins,

every particle in my body cries out for yours

with tears that taste like raindrops and dumb fingers longing to touch.

 

I guess that’s the third part of the problem.

Touch.

 

You hold my body like a weapon,

not a means to and end but the end itself.

I am whole inside your hands but empty beside your body.

 

When we touch it’s like an eclipse,

everything is

gone….

…. but there’s light.

But there’s nothing.

 

A kiss upon my lips is like the sealing of a promise,

the signing of a will.

“We’re doomed,” you tell me. “We’re nothing.”

I am used to nothing.

 

“I once was nothing and I didn’t die.”

I want to tell you,

trace the words with shaky lips and uncertain fingers.

I didn’t die…

I wish I could remind you that death has a taste, yes

but so does life.

 

You taste like the bitter ending of one and the sweet beginning of the other.

The passion fruit suspended between your life and my death.

 

And still you hold me like a weapon,

my lips like the barrel of a gun sweet against your temple

and my hands clawing pathways across your arms,

my arms.

 

That’s the final part of the problem.

If we were always nothing,

how come it was always us?

 

L.

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Author:

22 year old blogger trying to get into the actual habit of writing. If you have any suggestions, please let me know. Really, I haven't been able to keep a blog in years.

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