Home is in my hair, my lips, my arms, my thighs, my feet and my hands. I am my own home. And when I wake up crying in the morning, thinking of how lonely I am, I pinch my skin, tug at my hair, remind myself that I am alive. Remind myself to step outside and greet the morning. Remind myself that it’s all about forward motion. It’s all about change. It’s all about that elusive state.
There’s as many atoms in a single molecule of your DNA as there are stars in the typical galaxy. We are, each of us, a little universe.
I was starting to recover. But then you looked at me again.
You’re not in love with me, not really, you just love the way I always made you feel. Like you were the centre of my world. Because you were. I would have done anything for you.
A flower does not think of competing to the flower next to it. It just blooms.
Her mouth is a cathedral.
You go there to confess your sins
and have them forgiven.
Her thighs are the altar
where you worship her.
Her hips are holy.
When you touch them
you feel cleansed
and full of fire, simultaneously.
She is a goddess.
She is terrifying.
With hands like silk and sandpaper.
She is the place you go to sin.
She is the place you go to repent.
Someone should have told you
not to love this way.
You cannot love people like they
don’t make their own mistakes.
Some people do not want to be worshipped.
Some people do not want to
Some people do not want
to be the place you go to find God.