I am not delicatenot like they say I should be becausethere is a hungera longing in mefor theprimalimpactragein your awakeningwet inner thighstremblingachingwaitingfor you to give into itand take medesire beyond controlturningmy skin intopurple and goldcalloused handson velvet skinfingers wrappedso fucking tightlybecomingmy favorite adornmentmaking me feelso pretty no, I am not delicateand I don’t want to

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I watch the phone as it rings. I don’t press any buttons. Your number memorized. I wait and I wait until the sound stops. And then the world turns again. But the truth is.. I want to hear your voice. I want to say yes, ok, let’s runaway. I want to get lost in the

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I believe that I am good inherently intentionally and in spite of this well worn handle and ever sharpened blade a weapon in waiting and paused violent momentum gripped firmly like an eager lover by my side LL

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sadness like arachnoids so many legs creeping up my skin holding hands with my depression my self suppression my loneliness they bit and burrowed spun webs between my deeps within someday, I fear they will break out aggressively spinning cocooning me in their silky cage and on that day the spiders will win LL

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I see him walk across the parking lot.. It’s 7 am and he’s stopping to get a gas station coffee. Most of the time, he’s got the walk perfected. Something he was taught long ago about how a man carries himself. Confident, shoulders back, ready to face the day… But you can’t hide tired eyes.

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i am the afternoon stormon a summer dayslippery raindripping down your skingetting caught in meunexpectedlysoaking youbathing youin this feelingpouring over youwashing you cleanwarm and wetsinkinginto itas you let goas you release LLthe blood & the bones

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i belong to youbut if you are lostbrokenhurtinglet me lead you back to who you aremake you wholeheal youto submit, to serve, to belongdoes not always mean to follow LL

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💫 Do you look for me? On streets bustling with bodies on their way to wherever people with 9-5 purpose and happy hour plans have to be, a flash of blue. Was that her? Couldn’t of been… Scanning the book store for new words to devour finding yourself on the folklore aisle, picking up books

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there is a fear that lives in me that there may never be one who discovers my darkness feels my fire reveals my desires digs so deep coming to know and awaken my truest self and still stays LL

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so many muses have come and gone writing and writing until my hand goes numb but what about me? will I ever inspire a writer to compare my eyes to azure skies to detail the cinnamon smell of my skin the thorns in my scorn to immortalize me in written form I am a poet

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