blood of green

silk, velvet bobs

needle-shaped fingers

sugary smiles, sweet enough to be put in a box

and wrapped in lacy ribbon

crinkling eyes, captivating enough to hold me in place

when they are looking at you

shining golden heart, genuine enough to give light

to all the parts of me 

that crack beneath the surface.

crevices and holes and hidden veins where

dark, cold blood flows

fear, misery flows

all my insecurity goes

cobweb bones and caves of flesh

where you can see my pain, raw, fresh

red, blue, green?

twisting, choking, i mean

your fingertips dancing along unknown nerve endings, i mean

soft melodies somehow intertwining with your heartstrings, i mean

unfamiliar memories, unfamiliar to me

to me,

to me, the idiot waiting in your backseat,

the backseat of your heart, or maybe the backseat of nothing

the backseat of nothing, and everything in between

to me, the poor lovesick soul

who's hanging onto every word you pour

i keep them like a secret,

i keep them like a poem,

i keep them because they sound just like home.

and so my mind's gears turn at night

in the morning, they still do

in the afternoons, nothing's changed,

and i'm still thinking about you.

it's pathetic.

it's ridiculous!

it's crazy, it's stupid, it's tiring,

makes me the opposite of frivolous.

i

am exhausted.

my eyes

are red

from all the internal wars with myself

as i venture into alternate dimensions

and see your hand in someone else's

from each life to the next.

my head

is heavy

from the never-ending what ifs

and struggles between a pumping organ down in the middle

and a mass of tissue up north.

my chest

is hollow

from swelling up with profuse amounts of emotion

and from suppressing itself into a tiny little box when all the emotions

are too embarrassing, too shameful

from making space for something that is never going to come.