has the sun ever spoken of you in warmth?
there is cruel irony in love; the willing surrender of freedom. i am a mess of words and you are an apology to god in the form of flower petals and silver spoons. who am i without you? without the weight of imperfection on my back?
i was 11 when i first draped a towel over my mirror, 12 when i first found peace in war. when did you stop sleeping with the night light on? i am a mess of words and you are the wind that carries love from warm houses to gravestones.
you are my beach boy, the seashells and the coloring books from when you were 5. i am the scars on my chest, the dry skin on my arms. you are the sun and i am the chipped cup you cannot use, yet do not let go of. am i worth keeping, or not worth the pain of throwing away?
i read the bible last night in hope of finding recognition in the eyes of the devil; turns out he was born with wings that were meant to catch on fire. will the ache be worth the rest? will i break enough bones to fit? will you grow into my vacant hands or will i grow a few more pairs to keep empty?
i felt the ground shake underneath my feet in 2015 and now my house shakes when a plane passes by. i still flinch when the water ripples inside a bottle, i still look for swinging keychains when the bed starts to rock. i still call for my father when glasses start breaking. you still laugh when i tell you i think the windows are trembling.
sometimes i try to write of you and only god slips past my tongue. you are my prayer, my proof of existence, my excuse for the ache. who am i writing to? when will i stop? there is blood on my stomach and i wonder if you'd wipe it away.
