bangingonkeyboards

 My biological mother’s name is Anna and my father is Peter. They met in high school when she was sixteen. He was her first kiss, I think. I’m not sure if she was his. At the time of my conception, they had known each other for two years. I don’t know why he was home from college in the middle of a semester, but I imagine that my mother was the light in the dark depths of February, I imagine it had something to do with her her thick curls, her hazel eyes, her tender mouth shaped just like mine, here. I imagine it was her laugh that he loved the most. My mother did not laugh when I came into this world and into her hands. Sh

i saw you today and you look so thin now i would feed you my heart if you’d let me i would steal you the marrow of my bones you’ve already taken so very much from me but still i am willing to throw my very own self into the fire i’d hand you the knife and let you carve the meat from my bones

he sleeps with his hand in my hair, long fingers tender. i don’t ever sleep but next to him, i do. if he were a color, he’d be stars painted against the deepest night sky. i’ve never met a person that wasn’t a flat shade, but he is constellations. he is so bold, but his voice is soft, and he holds me like i am eternities in his arms.

i don’t know what to write here. that i miss you? that it’s not okay and i want your arms around me? i want the smell of you and your hands on my ears, tangled up in my hair. i want you sleeping and peaceful, fingers like butterfly wings on my spine. i want your car, you and me and highways. i want the night pressed against us and the air thick with sufjan stevens and your voice. i want your grandmother’s house and bumping hips in that tiny kitchen, your queen size bed and cool sheets, sprawling on the carpet in bare legs and baggy t-shirts, rug burn on the backs of my knees. i want kissing in your parent’s half-fin

i hate him for taking so much from me he sucked the marrow from my bones because he was hungry he drank my tears and sipped my blood like it was nectar and now i’m left withered a flower hanging limp bent stem i hate him for saying he loved me and killing me instead

when we first talked again, i slept with your old shirt wrapped around a stuffed animal. i pretended the smell of you was still caught in the fibers of it, that holding something tangible in my arms would make me feel less empty.

I like to write and draw and cook and ache between your hands. I’m proud of the way I can make you moan in my ear. Your hands bridging the gap over the span of my hips makes me feel like infrastructure finally complete. With your rose petal lips fit between my own and your guitarist’s fingers strumming the chords of my spine, I am nothing more perfect. I don’t need to be, not with these hands touching me like I’m precious metal. If we were a color, it would be lavender. But there are demons clawing inside me, scratching at my toenails and cackling in my belly. Worry bends me over backwards, gnaws at my bones and snack

you rolled over last night to cup me in the bowl of your arms i know a lot about failing and a lot about falling your breath sticks like smoke on my clothes. our words hung thick like syrup in the air and i fucking hate syrup. i am the light to your dark but we are both dark, darker than midnight with no moon.

life is stasis, isn’t it? we are caught always between where we want to be and where we are looking back to. it’s always too much, too little. you couldn’t hit the sweet spot if you tried. if you go, you will condemn us to no man’s land, walking the tightrope of indecision. onwards, onwards, into eternity. if you go, my love. we will never be done with each other. even if i don’t see you for a month, a year, fifty years - the rest of my life - we will never be done with each other. just as certain as i am of my heart in my chest, i know this. you don’t have to feel it constantly beating to know somethi