What color are your
walls? Do you even build them?
Mine drip with fresh paint,
shining new layers of fear,
black like the night you can’t see.

There will always be
two—women staring out this
mirror, two women
reflected in your eyes, and
only one brown gaze: his, hers.

She has a great smile.
I only bare teeth to snarl.
She bit the hand—yours—
while I let you feed me smiles,
while I hope I don’t snap, too.

I peel pain from my
fingertips, breathe heartache from
each string that you strum.

I am confetti
in your brain—all bright color,
all pieces falling.

I erase feeling
because my scribbles never
make sense on the page.

List your fears.
Strike heights from
the column and replace
deception with truth:
the fear of falling—apart,
in love. The way words
fall from your lips,
from your fingertips,
the way hair falls
like water down
your back as he
brushes it away
to let hands fall
on your back.
Your eyes fall
to the ground
because fear of falling
makes us fall
apart. Close the gap,
let the words fall,
fill the space with
all that tumbles
into the abyss—
tears on cheeks,
laughter behind teeth,
questions of mind,
hopes from a wooden heart.
We all fall.
Down, apart, asleep.
But from some great falls,
he couldn’t put you
together again.
So here you are,
at the edge,
gasping at empty
spaces and how far
away you can be.
Fear of heights.
But you’re looking
at him, and you aren’t afraid
of leaping until the rush,
the between and beyond
of air around you,
air leaving lungs.
Remember your real fear:
The fear of falling.
The way you fall alone,
the way you have time
to wonder how much
it will hurt to hit
the bottom.
The way he’s
watching and couldn’t
save you
because he’s not falling, too.

Suns steep disguises,
the moon your mask—I cannot
give what you can’t ask.

You capture words, not
hearts—what do your hands know of
poetry, silence?

Need to silence seals
my lips; silence burns my throat
with need to open seals.

How to Create a Phobia

Tell her you want her
lips on yours while your eyes count
each surprised blink. Eight.

Ask her if she knows
how much you care, but only
once. Never again.

Call her by her last
name, show you relish every
syllable of her.

Whisper about change—
the way you don’t want her to,
the way you won’t ask.

Let her think language—
how you speak her fluently.
The way we’re fluid.

Smile without reason
and promise you understand—
this will pass. She’s fine.

Say goodbye. Names don’t
change—like you, the way you won’t
ask and don’t tell her

you. And are. And want.
Because you—your greatest fear
is to become hers.

I’ve run out of words
for fear—take my hand and I
will tell you my name.

Sing; I’ll write as rain,
pen the sound and the fury—
unless you’re silent—

"Happiness is a risk. If you’re not a little scared, then you’re not doing it right."

Sarah Addison Allen, The Peach Keeper (via observando)

(via kayjayfaletra)

Poems left to lull
my heart to sleep. Then you spoke.
Then I wrote mountains.