Exposition

Exposition

In moments like this,

I worry that I am only writing to silence the cacophony in my head.

I can’t hear your love over my fear, baby.

I feel nothing underneath this trembling.

I pray that you will remember me in lively twirls across your driveway

As you lean against my car and you laugh,

And tell me that I’m beautiful.

I pray that you never bear witness to me loving you in fetal position

                    Leaving you in fetal position

                                Losing you in fetal position.

 

I know fear all too well.

I have mastered the art of breaking bread with my demons

And bearing shaken soul for snaps upon a stage.

Fuck with me

So I can write you into dust, baby.

So I can at least get a piece from my pain.

 

Don’t you understand that I am an artist?

This shit is all poetry to me.

This shit is all characterization and climax.

I will make you my muse

If you promise not to be a memory.

 

I wonder when you look at me,

Do you see a woman looking to you to learn love, love?

Do your eyes follow mine as they trace the rough patches on your skin?

As the nightmares flash of rough patches you’d never leave me in.

I see God in this love, love.

My heart quakes at the soft thunder of your voice

(And the rain feels like rebirth)

        Like risen sun

                    (Or finished poem).

 

This shit is all art to me.

All masterpiece on crumpled page

And spontaneous, harmonious melody.

 

Baby…

 

I sing you daily.

Stitches of History

Stitches of History

Chronicles of a Foodie: Summer in Durham

Chronicles of a Foodie: Summer in Durham