Aren't we all waiting to be read by someone, praying that they'll tell us that we make sense?

On the day you couldn't hold yourself together anymore, you called for me, voice crackling like two sets of knuckles before an altercation. I found you, looking like a damaged wine glass. I hugged your shatter, I cut all of my fingers trying to jigsaw puzzle you back together. When it was over, you looked at the stains on the carpet and blamed me for making a mess.

If I could I would nail these hands to the edges of stars. I would sacrifice this body to the sky hoping to resurrect as someone spiteful enough to not care about you.

you wouldn't let me love both of us at the same time

When you choose to be a poet, you become a place that people walk through and then leave when they are ready