haven’t my poems changed?
grown and morphed,
just like me.
i crave the sunlight in my room;
i will burn my blinds and burn my
solitude.
(breath, no)
january gives
way to february
and i dig out
old tights.
spring is coming.
you don’t feel the peace
in my poems?
the quiet, infinitude
of promise?
quiet.
balanced,
breathy,
quiet.
i’ll wait.
i’ll wait forever.
a part of me takes her time,
walks through fields of flowers
of youth and promise;
she sits there and touches roses.
just her.
i watch her sometimes.
i fall all the way
back in love with myself.
my hands are everything,
everywhere.
my love is in my fingertips
and i spread it everywhere;
hugging my friends
and holding my mothers hands,
grasping my books
and touching what i love the
most.
i care about how
i title these,
i care about my name
and my eyes.
i care a lot
and it’s always
been perfect.
hundreds of poems
and jokes
and laughs and
promises and
brightness.
brightness.
breath,
and balance,
and brightness shining
within, without and as me.
i’ve written my favourite
poem,
years ago,
when i decided to be
who i am.
the greatest art,
the greatest statue,
the best achievement of
mine will always be me.
poems sit in my hips
that i won’t ever write;
the words fall out of my hair
when i shake my head;
the metaphors sit in the
fleshy part of my stomach;
the commas surround my fingers and
my love.
i am everything i
am,
what more could keep me warm?
i shiver less now,
as winter tumbles into
spring.
i shiver less now,
acutely aware of the
rings on my fingers
and the interludes i write
so often.
roses are not my
favourite flower,
but i like the red and
i like the softness.
roses are apologies and
promises and
they do not fit on the
cusp of my ear.
the thorns remind
me of someone i used to love,
but i love her still.
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