Here is a feeling that I struggle with: the need to have my suffering acknowledged. It is what makes me consider what it would be like if you killed yourself in the shower, and I had to tell people.
I do not want to be appropriated. My day did not go as planned. I poured myself into him. I dripped liquid.
The scarf is almost finished I will sew you into my thighs and crochet my eyes across your biceps. I hold my fingers in the flames until my flesh drips onto your flesh.
I smash my face into your face. My forehead molds to your cheek. Colors explode out of the canvas, textures and slipstreams bursting bright light.
Dear,
In another life I will marry you. I will hold your shaking hands until we sleep.
