you breathed rainbows into my skin,
I felt your breath condense
against my pupils, and
streak down my cheeks in rows
of mascara-tarmac strips
but I haven't felt you for weeks.
Your ribs caged me
and I lost myself in the depths of the forest
growing in your gut.
I was a fire of the worst kind, and you
were the winds that blew me between continents,
to burn in people's throats and
teach them to revolt, but
I've never thought of myself as matter- I am gas.
I am the stuff of stars
and Darwin's evolution.
I was built from dust.
Burned into existence by
some natural, explosive force
that grew taste-buds from vapour
and blasted my web of veins from nothing.
you can say I'm the same
as any other corner of this map
we call humanity
but find me someone
who isn't afraid of dying,
and is terrified of their own reflection like I am.
you are a Monet, and I
am just graffiti,
on your local skate park
but somehow I manage to enthrall you
with the shine of my hair, or
the taste of my fingertips
every time I catch your eye.
and I, I'm not sure whether you notice
the way my over-grown smile glows
whenever you take my hand, or
hold my waist without asking.
(the part that curls into my hips
the one you find with your fingers
every time I turn away)
I have kissed the sky too many times
for my lips to taste of anything but clouds.
sometimes I just need a break from dreaming,
so I sit outside and enjoy the ash
falling from my teeth, or
drink coffee at two in the morning.
He rotted me.
Now I taste sweet,
like preserved lemons, or
the trigger guard of your favourite rifle.
I never fancied heavy artillery,
I preferred moths dancing on tiles or
whiling away my time watching light
glancing off the surface of lakes and rivers,
I am too busy to play games
or spend time thinking up things that I don't really mean.
I'm not going to bend or break.
I will sway.