[x]

August Lover,I want to wrap myself in your air,
hold your secrets between my
ribcage-embrace & just
breathe.

William,If I am nothing but an actor
on a stage in this dust town
of rose torn bones and washed up
stars, why is it that the galaxy sculpted
crescent moons in my palms
ache?

dust.I'm choking
on the ink-dipped fingers
of verbs & metaphors
still lodged in this bruised,
paper crane throat;

the starving,
dead-flower scent
of your words,
still kissing my ribs.

How can you judge me-
when you don't bother
to read the naked poetry
beneath the temple of my flesh?

How long can butterfly
ankles hold up a
star-soaked frame?

Don't bother whispering
your secrets to nebulae,
not even the dust in my veins
will listen anymore.

Collection of poetic nothings.We were opal Tuesdays,
mosaic butterflies
tattooed into the
rose garden curve
of my vertebrae,

gliding me through this wild youth.

But, like Icarus—
I was a sky conqueror
& these silk wings

touched the sun.

-

My inhalations are heavy,
like the earth he bruises
beneath his fingertips
as I chase silence.

"You've got a tongue
made for words." He says
against the arrogant thorns
of my briar spine.

"Learn to love yourself."

-

How do I say I love you
without saying I love you?

"I want to replace my heart with you."

-

You are spider silk woven
into my harvest moon
heartstrings, spider
limbs traveling this road map
of s

astrological.i. On some nights,
street lights guide
this lonely heart
to her lonely bed.

ii. In this universe of twilight skin
& mismatched bones,
I wonder just how many poems sleep
beneath the inkwell of her eyes.

iii. My body is a house of stars,
and her palms are black holes
sucking ( me ) into their vortex of

nothing.

iv. She says, "Please—my moon,
please—give these bones a reason
to stay."

& I am whispering lovelies
into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.

v. "Goddess temple,
sunset eyes, &
my windowpane love-

Let us eat the stars
t

fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp:
these wildfires raging in our retinas
& the sins we wear like demonic similes
on our tongues- they are not enough.

& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.

but, tell me,
what is a young poet(ess) to do
with veins made of kite strings?

Depression like lipstick stainsOn some days,

you are the angel dust
settled in my bones
keeping these December limbs
& Sunday-morning-coffee eyes
warm.

But, other days-
other days, I don't know
what to do
with your tornado kisses,
rage teeth that bite
& tear at my poetic insanity.

With these miles and miles
of bodies & hollow space
between our magnetic hearts-

How is it that these light-year pulses
still beat in sync?

Her eyes scream fill in the _____.They said
she has starving
little poet fingers,

& lungs-

filled with
the heroic hearts
of nameless protagonists.

But, she cries

tears of Saturn
on too-little-sleep nights,
& coffee ringed mornings.

They call her vanilla.

Innocence,
much too ripe to fall
with freckles on her
wander(lust)
shoulder-blades
singing connect-the-dot

blues.

FrostI am devouring chaos,
chasing it down with winter's chill.
Spare me your fingerprints,
summer's lovechild. Those knowing owl eyes
have me second guessing the wild churning
in my bones. You are the sleep that sweeps
my eyelashes, drowning me in my own daydreams.

When was it...
that you plastered yourself to my ribcage?

wet scribbles, tattooed tragedyI am shedding my skin
like the poetry that bleeds
from your ink-cracked lips
onto the bare bones of my
anatomy.

Unfold these moon-shy limbs
that chase silence
& beg stay-with-me.

For you are the only verse
hidden within this labyrinth
of scar-damaged flesh.

Dear Poetry,I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but-

Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin.
I am too many breaks between pulses,
& a heart still living in the autumn of 99.

I'm telling stories about a girl.

A soul made of ink & godly metaphors,
too much for a non-homeostatic body.

There were once fireflies in her smile,
alight between the gaps in her teeth.

A rebel,
love letters carved into wrists
she never sent.

Poetry,

She is Porphyria, & you are her lover.

NecromancyShe replaces her wrists
with the sharp thorns
of roses and slurred
don't-touch-me's

-

as she speaks
in an old tongued
language that whispers

de

cipher

me.

-

She collects stars
on her knuckles,
& her dust eyes
are sad moon nebulas
starved for love.

-

But, the kisses
she sinks into the curve
of her lover's ribcage
by night, warm that
supernova heart.

No wander about it, just lust.You were a mid-morning train wreck,
the embodiment of poetry.

& my clavicles whispered too many nothings
about your summer storm hands,
folding like paper cranes
to make wishes upon themselves.

wishes are for the weak-
stand up,
do something about this quaking heart
& freezing fingers.

Anything.

I think I found God then,
lurking behind wanderlust eyes.

respiration.i am shipwrecked fever;
kerosene sleep,
& she is denied oxygen.

i taste sirens on the shore
of her collarbones,
& salt-licked sea limbs.

but, it's the natural disaster
wrapped around her coral spine
that really has my lungs
   s
p
i
  n
  n
i
n
g.

Please, forgive me.Like lies, you said
I make breathing the cosmos
through rose colored lungs
look easy- vertebrae stretched
toward the moon.

& I'm hanging my bones
out to dry, carving Saturn's
rings into my wrists- my
star burst ankles.

I swore then I'd keep my
black tongued poetry
& uprooted limbs far,
far away from you.

But, like lies, galaxies,
& night fevers, you
are the destination
on my star map skin.

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I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,

"There is nothing
wrong with me, not a damn
thing.”

I wanted to believe
the big dipper on my arm
meant something more
than sun marks & kisses.

But, how can I trust words
that slip through my teeth
as easy as breathing
when this star
has only ever learned
how to f
a
l
l
?

NecromancyShe thinks there are nebulae
in the rough of my gutter bones,
some stargazing sanctuary
for lonely outcasts to lay their heads.

I am but a car crash,
spellbound
inside eyelids,
& red inked corrections
on crosshatched skin.

Made up of moans,
the clutching of bedsheets;
I am contemplating
ripping my ribs apart
& proving
I never had a heart at all.

But my moon shy love;
she is determined
to try & wake the dead.

Poetry,it’s like cultivating a greenhouse
with broken fingers.

NaPoWriMo: Day 10   Have you ever been so cold, Sweetheart,
your knee's q u a k e d like that Jenga piece
that buckled just before your whole foundation

t
o
  p
  p
l
  e
   d
over?

I have.

& no matter
how many times
I've restarted your heart,

one would think
I'd grow tired,
eventually;

I'm still writing you in poetry

(in the most inappropriate of places.)
You forced yourself beneath my blades
& my fingertips,
Licking unst

NaPoWriMo: Day 9More respect
for hungry lions,
than man's
greedy fingers,
she really,
really
doesn’t want to write this poem.

As she forgets how to use words
(on most days,)
relying on curses
like casting some witch's spell-
with only ten dollars to her name.

The oldest daughter:

she’s still somewhere in the middle,
filed under
miscellaneous

because they had no other way
to categorize her.

Getting her first gravestone at three-
she prayed
not to the gods,
but to the lily stargazers
in her palms.

One day
she would become

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Bone child,

by *DearPoetry, Dec 12, 2012, 10:43:27 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

this December's winter has your ribs cocooned with mine. & this wander(lust) heart will sustain warmth for the both of us.

Bone child,by *DearPoetry

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

~hemvagen Jan 27, 2013 General Artist

'this wander(lust) heart' is my favorite phrase in this little piece. wanderlust is such a beautiful word.

*DearPoetry Feb 18, 2013 Hobbyist Writer

Thank you, and I agree!

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Bone child,

Bone child,by *DearPoetry

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