A Place for Bloodied Words and Beautiful Words

I destroyed a world last time I touched you.
It was crushed under my fingers,
when I brushed your hair back from your face.
I want to write DEATH between your skin and mine.
There are empires falling between your lips and my throat,
entire universes,
destroyed by a drop of your sweat on my chest.
And in the space between “I love you” and “I love you, too”,
wars are fought over infinite silence
and the taste of your breath on their air.
It’s not that I don’t love you,
because I love you in all the failing human ways that I can love,
I love you like a bumbling child with their first taste of love,
because I AM,
I love you like I love the sun,
like I love the clatter of typing keys,
like I love the taste of my tears on my lips.
It’s just that love seems so irrelevant
when I can find infinity in each pale scar,
when I can find god in the space between your shoulders,
when I can find heaven in the safety of your arms
and hell at your fingertips.
I do not want to say I love you
when I could say
Your smiles hurt my skin
I want to cry alone in your bed
I will kill anyone who ever hurts you
But I won’t
I contradict myself so I can see understanding in your eyes
I won’t ever hurt you
But I will
If you break my heart, I’ll break your world
I can feel your voice on my skin when you say my name
I want to write bad poetry,
along your skin,
in lipstick, blood and welts left by my nails.
I want to taste you on my lips for forever and a day,
and I want to hate you until my blood is ice.
So when I say “I love you”
or when I whisper “yours”
or call you “darling”
or taste your name on my lips like a treasure,
I am not saying that I love you,
- though I do, I do, I do -
I am saying that the worlds between our broken syllables
are less important than the hairs against your face.

I will shave my legs,
because I like rubbing them together,
like a cicada.
(Or is that grasshoppers?)

I won’t shave my feet,
even though they’re hairy,
because hobbits do it better
and that’s how we roll in the shire.

I will shave my vulva,
sometimes, because my boyfriend likes it.
And sometimes I won’t
because I like having decoration.

I won’t shave my armpits,
because sometimes when it’s windy,
I can feel the breeze
moving my armpit hair.

I will paint my nails with white-out.
Tomorrow it will be Sharpie,
then a rainbow of cheap nail polish,
because I like how messy it looks.

I won’t bathe every day,
partly because I like the smell of sweat
but mostly because I am lazy
and showering is hard.

I will have lips like red blood.
or wine, or sunsets, or roses,
or that wax they put on cheese.
But my lips will be more use than that.

I won’t waste time with makeup,
which looks so good on others,
but always ends up in my eyes.
I will learn to love the red spots on my skin.

I will make funny faces
out of the fat rolls on my stomach,
with a sharpie and a good imagination,
because nothing is sexier than laughing.

I won’t worry about my nose,
or my knees, or my ears, or my teeth.
Not because I think they are sexy as they are,
but because I don’t have that kind of time.

I will be beautiful in all that I am.
I will be beautiful because I want to be.
I will be beautiful because I say so and then
I will get on with being more important things.

You say “mine”,
and it is easy to reply,
“yours”.
Yours as in, I will be your truth,
and you mine.
Yours as in, I will protect your fragile world,
and you mine.
Yours as in, I will destroy your enemies,
and you mine.
Yours as in, I will wait out all your sleepless nights,
and you mine.
Yours as in, I will protect you,
even when I can’t.
Yours as in, I know your strength,
and mine,
your weakness,
and mine,
your courage,
and mine.
Yours as in, you are mine to protect,
mine to love,
mine to care for,
mine to know,
mine to watch over,
mine to love,
mine to love,
mine to love, as
I am yours

Confidence is sexy,
it makes your eyes bright,
makes your mouth soft and inviting -
inviting a kiss,
a smile,
a kind word,
a name -
it makes you bounce
from rear-view mirror to a darkened shop window
where your eager reflection awaits you,
makes you pose like a god
and touch yourself lovingly,
like you deserve to be touched.
But the doubt in your eyes
when I kiss a red pimple on your arm,
when your hair is frizzy and misbehaves -
some days it is more Medusa than Leander -
when people who should not be strangers
ignore you,
this doubt is beautiful,
though I’d gladly feast on all that would subdue you.
Give me your enemies to fight and
I will overcome
even if your enemies are self-doubt and fear.
I will make dust of all that would sadden you
And, in the meantime,
I will love you enough for both of us.

A poem I did just then. Saw this post and for some reason was like “I’ma write a poem on that general topic” and then I did (this is not to suggest that I think “insecurity is beautiful” OR “confidence is sexy” are exactly the right thing to say, but sometimes they can be). 

Anyway, a lot of people I love have body image issues or other insecurities, so this is for them. And some people I love (myself among them) know exactly how fucking beautiful they are and this is for them, too.

(via ifuckalotofboys)