A Poet's Pen

My favorite things

My favorite part of your body

Are your hands.

They feel like

Warmth

Sun

Light

And a little more

Ethereal to the touch

Than the rest of us.

*Inspired by Rupi Kaur

Waiting for love is like

Waiting for warmth in December

Or for snow in the middle of summer–

It’s as consistent as the weather

And as simple as an atom,

Or a quiet explosion–

But I can’t seem to find it.

Talking sounds more like listening

To bursts of thunder crackling in the distance

Filling the room with static

Until the build up in our space becomes charged with rage–

Until everything has changed–

Until our bodies become nothing but pieces of wreckage:

A chaotic explosion for the barren wasteland

Where our minds are left behind to deal with the aftermath

made by our hands.

His touch grips the revolver in my mind

and sets it off with a burst of color–

Drained to white

As pain replaces the adrenaline and leaves me

Wasted.

My mind is sick.

There is a cancerous

cell

closing in on all sides

until my eyes close for the day

and give me time away

from myself.

My mind is sick,

and I can’t escape it.