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Love

You see me. In front of you I shed my perfectly sensitive skin scale by scale and lay skinless. My bones crumble away like chunks of shortbread and I resemble something of a puddle with a heart shaped brain pulsing against your skin.
You're a constant, a body of concrete, a dish with a hole the shape of me.
I want to evaporate into your chest.

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In response to F.

There's wounds inside my head, stamped deep into the grey folds of my brain. Love cannot heal me.

Detached, distrusting, disillusioned, we are reduced. Perfect bodies that will rot like everything else, we are, just empty images of ourselves. You call it love, but it's just sex.

I heard love scream through the night. I heard it claim innocence in the morning because "love is a fire that cannot be contained." You wouldn't be justifying it, if we just called it sex. These bruises fading on loves skin can never fade in the flow of my veins.

I have felt love touch my skin and kiss the nape of my neck with such gentle and wanting hands. Just sex.
I do not believe love will ever lick my wounds clean and hold my hand tight enough that I will not be able to leave.

I do not believe love can wrap me in good thoughts and rays of sunshine bright enough to grow summer flowers.
I have seen love...

Love settled.
In a small town surrounded by everything love in her youth tried t…

Just add water.

I wrote a book about you, and the grey concrete that gave life to me. The dead cement, the rough surface that scratched my knees and made them bleed. The hot asphalt, glittering at the touch of sunrays that warmed my veins until blood would overflow and pour out of me like some gory scene in a horror movie only, much brighter. It gave life to me.
I wasn't born out of fertile earth or wrapped in sweet greens, I was, very much, a child of mud, sweat and dust. Tirana, this vicious parent with bullets between its teeth and a bleeding tongue.
Tirana this prison of sorts, beautiful, and charming and disturbed. My bipolar hometown, my little slice of hell. How I miss it. It gave life to me and slipped a pen between my fingers and a taboo between my legs and it told me to choose.
I do not think about taboos father, I am too careless, too temperamental for that. I am rough inside like the hot concrete that birthed and raised me.
I stare down, from a window up on the fifth floor of a pre…

The Prospect of Being Happy

I'm on medication that will make me myself again. The doctor said. But I
Don't know who to expect
to see
in the small mirror on top of my dresser
Decorated
with polaroids of my best friend and I.
These medications,
Will make me myself again
The self I was
Before the illness started.
A self too young
To even have friends.
When I'm okay again,
will I still be a writer?
When I'm okay again
will I... really... Be ok?