There was
something beautiful
in the way
she gazed at him,
hidden behind
a wall of hair,
breath ragged,
arms wrapped around
hidden imperfections,
internalized demons.

There was
something fragile
in the way
she flinched under
his fingertips,
recoiling with
questioning eyes,
an unsure smile.

There was
something unsettling
in the way
her lips parted
and her breathing
stopped suddenly,
pleading with
tired eyes
as if to warn him,
“Do not love me.”

Paint your love on my body, 
a masterpiece of 
purple-red splotches 
scattered across pale skin, 
passion written in flesh; 
Sore with desire and a reminder 
of your presence.

Frosted windshield
on a Sunday night
below zero,
It’s 3:22 in the morning
and I’m hoping I’ll drive
right into the sun.

He had the
kind of arms
that you could cry in
and the
kind of chest
that you could fall asleep on,
and she couldn’t ask
for anything more.

I could lie
and say that
I am wearing your shirt
because I have
nothing else to wear but,
if we’re being honest,
my heart is cold
and your shirt
is the warmest thing
in my closet.

Three words read
etched across your chest,
and as my lips began
to understand the first,
you stole the second
and I gave it all to the third,
forgetting every single word

I wonder if you could etch hearts
into the passionless steam that rose
onto your windows,
paint sceneries of your deepest dreams
with the stale sweat she left
to slip on backseat leather,

I wonder if filling her to the brim
will cure your emptiness,
And I wonder if, in the end,
It was worth it

I watched a wolf with low, grey eyes
Lead a girl with roses in her hair
Down the path where the willows sigh.
She skipped behind him as he
stalked between the bushes and the frost
and admired the way his fur
glistened under the moonlight.

The next night I watched the wolf with low, grey eyes
lead a girl with a daisy behind her ear
down the path where the willows sigh.
I tried to tell her to run before harsh winter sets in,
but his word is all she believes.
And all the while she dances barefoot
In the wood where he left her to freeze.

I think frequently about
the way your tongue
writes poetry
onto my inner thigh,
and my lips
plant words unspoken
onto your jawline,

Your skin whispers
against mine,
“I want you
so badly,”
and my body
responds with a shiver,
“You already
have me.”

The words
played upon my lips
but I bit
them back
with enough desperation
to draw blood.
You tasted it
upon my tongue
and when you inquired
I said nothing,
the damage
was already done.