maybe someday

one


the first love story i wrote myself poured out of me like wine.
afraid to say your name, instead i wrote it hundreds of times over
a prayer, a chant, an incantation.

***

tracing neuron pathways that send us back thousands of years feels exactly like running my fingers down your spine.

***

i wanted to pluck the stars out of the sky and pop them on my tongue
ruby red pomegranate seeds bursting a constellation against my lips

***

all my dreams, dragons, and desire -
every place inside me that was hollow was just waiting for someone else to fill it.

two

second one is kind of gory, 18+

the first love story i wrote myself poured out of me like wine.
i was afraid to say your name, so i wrote it hundreds of times over
hoping one day it would be enough to cause you to rise up and start walking across my tongue instead.

***

i am just corpse waiting for the one who can fit into my hollow places,
for some reason i've always known my ribcage would make a good home
for somebody's soul other than mine.
without me having to carve out the fingerprints out of my hands, i already know what it would feel like to feel you beneath my skin.

***

if you don't want to call it love - call it what it is and be done with it.


***

LadySpark wrote:if you don't want to call it love - call it what it is and be done with it.

OBSEEEEEEEEEESSED <3333

three.

the first love story i wrote myself poured out of me like wine.
i was afraid to say your name, so i wrote it hundreds of times over
hoping one day it would be enough to cause you to rise up and start walking across my tongue instead.
i wanted it to be a dream but now that i'm awake i think i
would rather be your marionette on strings between fingertips
because at least then i would know who's lead i was supposed to follow.
it is always been something i've searched for or yearned for or starved for
that touch of someone who knows better than i do
where all my puzzle pieces will lie smooth and flush rather than jagged islands
snagging the detritus that drifts past on its way out to sea

i am just corpse waiting for the one who can fit into my hollow places,
for some reason i've always known my ribcage would make a good home
for somebody's soul other than mine.
without me having to carve out the fingerprints out of my hands, i already know what it would feel like to feel you beneath my skin.
throw my body in the ocean when you're done with me
don't forget to bring me inside and dress me in dry clothes before bedtime
lest i haunt what's left when i finally dry out, sunsoaked and only able to rasp out your name

it is simple, and i'll just say it plainly - i only like myself when i am someone else.
split me open like a nectarine and find my insides are just the same as the outsides
rotten and peeling sides of a burnt midwest farmhouse
the dust bowl rolling backwards over the plains
my heart dried and husky before it's time to harvest, too late to save any of it.
i am no longer someone who can be trusted to peel back the skin of an orange without making it bleed.
i'm starting to think you aren't either.

i will offer the parts of me to you that doesn't crumble into dust,
if you'll let me
believe this old shoe soul when i say
it's enough in the end.
if you don't want to call it love - call it what it is and be done with it.

four.

i write love stories and they pour out of me like wine.
afraid to say your name, i instead write it one thousand times over
hoping one day it will be enough to cause you to rise up and start walking across my tongue instead.

i wanted it to be a dream but now that i'm awake i think i
would rather be your marionette on strings between fingertips
because it is always been something i've searched for or yearned for or starved for

for the touch of someone who knows better than i do
who can correctly identify
where all my puzzle pieces will lie smooth and flush rather than jagged islands
who can point and somehow know that direction is the north star
fingertip snagging detritus that drifts past on its way out to sea
keeping me from being carried away

i am just corpse waiting for the one who can fit into my hollow places,
as i have always known that my ribcage would make a good home
for someone else's soul (not mine).

without me having to carve out the fingerprints out of my hands, i already know you are underneath my skin
rewriting my neurons until they stop fighting the inevitable:
that you will throw my body in the ocean when you're done with me but you won't forget
to bring me inside and dress me in dry clothes before bedtime
lest i haunt what's left when i finally dry out, sunsoaked and only able to rasp out your name

it is simple, and i'll just say it plainly - i only like myself when i am someone else.
split me open like a nectarine and find my insides are just the same as the outsides
rotten and peeling sides of a burnt midwest farmhouse
the dust bowl rolling backwards over the plains
my heart dried and husky before it's time to harvest, too late to save any of it.
i am no longer someone who can be trusted to peel back the skin of an orange without making it bleed.
i'm starting to think you aren't either.

i will offer the parts of me to you that doesn't crumble into dust,
if you'll let me
believe this old shoe soul when i say
it's enough in the end.
if you don't want to call it love - call it what it is and be done with it.

five.

i am too tired for pretense tonight.

so i'll just say it plainly - i only like myself when i am someone else.

if you split me open like a nectarine and find my insides are just the same as the outsides
don't be surprised

rotten and peeling sides of a burnt midwest farmhouse
the dust bowl rolling backwards over the plains

don't be surprised that my heart dried out and turned husky before it was time to harvest, that i couldn't hold onto golden hour any better than i could hold onto the things that keep me, me.
fog rolling off my mountain side, mouth filling up with grave dirt, worry stones falling from my belly into the river.
the only parts of me that are worth anything are the places where someone else's soul can fit.

i am no longer someone who can be trusted to peel back the skin of an orange without making it bleed.

believe this old shoe soul when i say

i am too tired for pretense tonight.

lay me down in the river, let me sink to the bottom
i will like myself better when i return to you soggy wet and full of holes
better to be waterlogged than this withered, crusty thing.