The sky is drowning, and I with it.

The moon is no longer mine—

she doesn’t follow me into the sea.

She reaches, she tries,

but her glowing visage is only

smeared over the sea like

oils paints on clean canvas.

Love is a

vice

that /wraps/ around your chest,

leaving you

gasping

and desperate for air.

You wish your body could’ve taken those

bruises,

bore those bleeding gouges instead, but

you can’t.

Time ticks on and you only have the

moments counting forward.

Something trembles ever so faintly in your belly

like a leaf caught on the storm grate.

Love makes you dizzy and stupid and oh so soft.

And this softness has won you hands that will cup yours.

What is love if not for the moments where you’re split in two,

crumbling like salty sand against the relentless surf.

What is love when you’ve ripped out stitches with your bare fingers,

wounds spitting blood until coagulation sets in.

Love doesn’t centre around the notion of perfectionism.

We live in shades of grey, some darker than most,

but no one is stark white.

No one is perfect.

Rather, it is the challenge of finding a perfect match

that will meet you toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye.

It should be fulfilling.

It’s a two way street under construction

with telephone wires strung along

for clear communication.

Love is easy.

But it takes effort.

Love with everything you have,

or don’t love at all.

She deserves all of you.

And you deserve all of her.

callused flesh prods my arm and

gooseflesh erupts over the plains

of body. bile slithers up my throat,

holding my breath like a vice.

i feel dirty i feel dirty i feel dirty—

the weight of a heavy hand that is

capable of heavy-handed strikes

lingers longer than it’s really there.

sometimes i think it’ll stay forever,

my flesh likes to keep reminders.

a wet, searing brand is planted on

my temple, like it belongs there.

my chest shrivels and dies again

and again, until i feel inside out.

i wipe desperately, but the stench

of it stays for another hot winter.

haphephobia haphephobia haphe—

maybe if i say it enough it’ll

show up in words on my forehead.

consent to touch is like offering

the keys instead of being driven.

the act of arm wrapping feels safe

if i’m the one doing the wrapping;

being wrapped is suffocating,

like the gaudy craft store ribbon

is being tied tight around my neck.

don’t touch me don’t touch me

keep your hands visible and away

i keep seeing the red handprints,

feeling the raw sting of discomfort.

don’t wanna feel five points of

pressure bracketing my wrist—

i can’t get oxygen in my lungs

i can’t see past the haze of panic

god all i can do is feel feel feel

and i want it to stop the collapsing

of my body and the void in my gut,

the vice around my throat my brain

am i drowning am i falling—

the scent of eucalyptus is heavy,

lingering in the folds of flesh.

sixteen years of watching candles

drip scorching wax from the sun,

as if icarus himself was being

melted out of the sky.

matches curling

like wilting lavender,

and beer bottles clinking

like broken charms

make tapestries

of loss and looking.

the friction of graphite in the ridges

of my identity is uncomfortable,

but not more so than the notion of

cotton thread sealing hearts closed.

three days of waiting for the

dread to be washed away.

it becomes clearer when one

ensconces everything in

pure panic and true terror,

the intimacy between

oneself and time can never

be cleanly cut away.

screams don’t echo

in the void.

there’s nothing

and everything

tied to your ankle after

being thrown headfirst into

a sea of sirens.

fingers that remember the bite

of steel and friction

when your retinas have lost focus—

this is a song you’ve sung,

a song you shan’t forget.

one hundred eyes won’t

make it easier

to watch your back for killers,

but at least you’ll be able to

see the sun rise and set

at the same time,

wondering if there’s anything

greater than watching the day

live the life of a firebird.

almond squeaking

between molars

like summer-tanned arms

against wet,

neon pool floaties.

boots weathered by weather

and umbrella tucked

inside-out.

gumdrop nail trapped between

anxiety and stress and wanting.

earbud wires tangling

in too-long hair,

kicking dust under achilles heels

and feeling the sun

on knees

like roller blade knee pads.

press cold nose to the cello,

getting high

on the scent of amber varnish.

environmentally choking

crocs sloshing lake water

into the hallway

like loch ness cryptid sightings.

orange peel pressed to

sick tongues,

rosemary-filled ziplocks

tucked deep into pockets.

months away from proselytisation

and blasphemy,

the soul crowing and throat

hoarse from harbouring autarky.

(25July2020 9:56PM)

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soft velvet; ebony like

bruises at midnight—

pooling on that alabaster flesh

like spilled ink on snow.

glass half-full

sinking like the hull

of this paper boat.

scissors on the counter

running from quivering fingers,

bleeding this rust

into cracked porcelain.

girdling the drain like forever

is imminent

and clicks of time

are etched against your tongue.

gouache anointed thighs,

grecian hydria

pouring salt onto your

parted lips.

dry your throat and tongue

a mouthful of cotton.

rub taupe pages between

paper-cut finger tips,

crimping corners into

serrated denticles.

leaves into eye sockets,

notes worth thousands

flap out of scalded wrists.

(12July2020 7:45PM)

do not copy, do not repost to an alternative site. Copyright ©️ 2020 BurningMidnight

sometimes i forget how much

i like the way steel

carves canals

into my fingertips.

flushed cheeks like climbing ivy

soft and warm

at mid-afternoon.

tomorrow, gums will bleed

and my tongue will ache

of neon lights—

fat from the sting of bourbon.

cardboard box

attached to a delivery bird,

filed receipts under

a tired pseudonym.

newly polished hardwood

under garden toes,

streaking exuberance.

sweat scrubbed into my back,

amber sap making five fingers

into one single paddle.

grilling pineapples so hawaii

can sit comfortably

in my mouth and

fingers crossed for mulberries

to paint the grass

in a rainstorm.

today my teeth are wired

like an industrial rollercoaster

and i think it will serve

as excellent entertainment

until tomorrow.

(19July2020 4:17PM)

do not copy, do not repost on an alternative site. Copyright ©️ 2020 BurningMidnight

razor curving 'round calves,

up lavender thighs.

mix-tapes in the drawer,

pulsing with crackling strings.

rotund shoulders roll,

pulling back;

chin up.

tuesday's are beethoven's.

aloe swept over forehead

when the the rays

are fiercer than

bones collapsing in the bathtub.

standing on hard water;

balancing act

with arms in surrender.

garden shears for overgrown

locks on the iron gate.

sold love to the pawn shop

down 7th street

because spoons are missing

and the pillow is cold.

two-cent thoughts left on the stove

whilst the fires

swallow last winter's ashes.

red honey swims down the panes

of this closed door

as the carpet burns palms.

(12July2020 2:24PM)

do not copy, do not repost to an alternative site. Copyright ©️ 2020 BurningMidnight

you speak to grecian statues,

voice warm like white wine

and cherub's cheek

under soft finger pads.

you clutch

the filthy ears of your sons;

browned,

but translucent under

the midday sun

like jellyfish washed ashore

after a bad storm.

you gaze into the space above

my head

because you don't want to look at

the last dredges of ice tea

left in your martini glass.

my apologies

for the mess i left on your neck.

lip balm looks shiny

when you tilt that pretty head

of yours, arching your brow.

subject change like

hard turns on a puttering

italian motorbike.

you said you were going to

show me around

that country villa of yours,

you coming?

sharp turn, indeed—

but i for one do not mind

the vineyard, tousled sheets.

(29June2020 11:10PM)

do not copy, do not repost to an alternative site. Copyright ©️ 2020 BurningMidnight