Angles.

Our lips were a shade of delicate light blue;
their colour that of gentle stalactite
kisses softer than the words
you hold cushioned between your teeth.

You are a box of angry confessions;
Of terrible tongue twisters never deeming
it okay to let you go.
Always smiling through the beast engulfing the
best essence within you, apology
bowing it’s head in mourning to the sunset.
When will this get better?
When will all this white, darken, to something
almost fitting?

I have romanticised the idea of you to the point
of blissful forgetting.
Within my frail mind you are
something I hold for purpose and
nothing else.
That you are not the person who, like me,
drowns when drinking a glass of water.
I look up at you only to see the stab wounds
embraced in a haunting white. Almost ironic.
Yet also, there’s a subtle darkness rife with horizontal lines,
stretching like limbs out over your legs
your arms
the parts you refuse to offer up as any form of sacrifice.
Your face is long with need and desire and praying
to a god you don’t believe in – Let me never give up
let this, self-infliction be simply an attempt to
prolong the healing.
Yes. I know that you’re afraid-
but the thing is the word fear can be beautiful depending on the
angle you look at it from.
But yes honey, I see you.
Un-Deciphered, you tremble through each whittled
step, wondering out into this world with
a smile, almost daring to try and be itself.
I think:
Melancholy owes the world an apology:
it’s allowing us all to see an angel standing tall
like a lighthouse, blazing in the places demons like to hunt. Kill.

Please, don’t be the man who owns the blood of which I,
tiresome or not, must wipe relentlessly,
off the seams of memory.
I don’t want to walk atop an earth,
That has convinced itself that you, have never quite
braced it’s tough surface.
I don’t want to watch you go.
I am still that little girl, waiting. Again.
For someone who swore they loved her,
to actually make. It. Back.