your type

i find more comfort in streetlights than the cold hearth of home.
will there ever be a day when my words mean enough for you to consider that maybe (just maybe),
i needed something more than your words, skin, being
to see a purpose in my words, skin, be-ing. because before i bought into your broken narrative of my perfection, i accepted my futility, but you, in your attempt to fix nature,
tore apart the remedy of oblivion that i have fed myself for years before
you.

does it take stained bathroom tiles
to convince you
that it’s not
a phase?

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she/her

“validate me.”

the air that you dispel from your lips should start meaning something.
nature nurtured me into nothingness,
but that doesn’t mean you should too.
woman graced you with breath, so
why are you afraid of the feminine from which you were created?

gold does not exist
to complement your futile mind.

i’m sorry

words let you know
when you deserve them and when
you don’t.

sorry’s thank you’s i love you’s

are these sounds enough to capture all of me,
all of you,
all of who and what we are?
because i’ve written out my apologies a million times
in my head, but
the best i can come up with
is the same 3 syllables–
have you ever wished to take back your silence,
but realize you once again have nothing else to give?

i sent my love.
it read like nothing but the empty promises we made
back when we overestimated what we could do–
when we chose to revolve our beings around the comfort of good morning’s and good night’s.

we were bound because we believed that letters were more than letters,
that the sounds rolling off our tongues will one day change the world.
maybe they will.

but i guess ours weren’t enough to.

i never heard the sound of
you reading aloud to me.
(i wish i could have)

-only his words stayed