whatsup1006

.     iris. he called me by the name of a flower because he thought i was beautiful. like maybe one day i just sprouted in his weed garden and became a pleasant surprise of bundled blossoms wrapped in purple summer dresses & something akin to petals woven in my hair; it was not my name, but it felt like it was. he'd write it on a slip of paper until he forgot the meaning, only felt that it was something important, and he needed to say it.     iris, he'd say.     your petals     are drooping.     like i was a flower that was wilting in the summer's eyes, blossoms losing their vibrancy & youth but still retaining their beauty. he c

. i.     gaze into his eyes like you're in love.     trace the galaxies that have found themselves lost     in their depths,     watch the echoes of supernovas collide beneath his     irises,     scrutinize the constellations that hide until the     right angle, the right light, coaxes them out.     they say the eyes are the windows to the soul. what do you see in his, a reflection or a contradiction? - your eyes . ii.     taste his lips, recognize the flavor of happiness     that lives on them.     smell the joy that simmers in his laughter lines,     boils into ecstasy in the groove set high over     his lip.     grow fond

. the galaxies were held in his eyes. i. supernovas contained in something the size of a dime nebulas colliding, impartial, hazy, indistinct in their numbers and forms the milky way, splotchy, incomplete, more like a spilled paint mistake than god's masterpiece. ii. we sat on his bed, ragged, well-loved like everything else he owned. we talked about how we'd leave one day, escape the suburban life, trade it in for some other adventure. and i asked,     "why do you like girls who are ugly?" he gave me a look, then turned away,     "i like a girl with stardust in her hair,     constellations illuminating her face.     that's why i l

No one ever told the stars to shine bright every night, so why do we worry when no one tells us to do the same?

She's an animal who's forgotten about her teeth and claws at a time when she needs them the most.

He was born blue, and I think he knew the whole time that it was going to kill him. * They thought he was the devil himself. I believe their taunting is what put his shoes on his feet and hung his coat over his shoulders. They made him hate himself when before there was love alone. * He came back the same way he left, dressed in the sea's best, plus a sun burnt face he tried to hide. “See?” the neighbors had said. “He's got red skin.” “See? He's got pointy horns.” “See? We were right.” * The last time I felt his fingers they were as cold as the steel he lived and worked in; I think it's we

. he was someone with thin-boned fists and thick muscle   in his chest. f r a g i l e , yet strong and healthy, he was the s i l e n c e of a synagogue,   sacred and still. until one day he went   missing. the locks smashed, dusty boot prints walking themselves up and down   his floors. (rabbi)t's breath lungs perched in a dove's rib cage, he was peace on a battlefield, an unwelcome guest, killed with the olive >    branch   > he   carried. .     countless skeletons                      passing down a staircase                                    they'll never walk up again. it's only down, down, down for them from now o

. i. dear girl with the soaked pearls,     how long has it been since I felt your fingers grace     my temples, clamor for the warmth in my neck?     how long has it been since i've heard you sing with     the voice of a siren, so sad, sad, sad, so beautiful?     how long has it been since i've read your words,     heard you choke on all that water in your lungs?     how long has it been since i left you tear-stained     for the river's laugh, little salt-lined girl? sincerely, the boy who said he never liked beautiful things ( but did. ) . ii. dear boy with the smudged fingers,   keep your hands out of that filthy coal.     you'l

. i. they remind us of our fragility, these tiny creatures with paper wings and heartbeats the neverending thunder in hollow chests. their lives formed of the breaths of stolen flower kisses in midday sun. ii. they remind us of our mortality. one day, we'll wake with nectar on our lips, and wish for the sweet carress of petals again, but we forget how quickly flowers wilt and die. ( darling, please don't let me wither in your arms. i don't want to leave a skeleton for the hummingbirds to sing through, my dear. ) iii. i like to think that { i own my flesh. } but i realize my assumption was wrong. how can you own something you never payed f