You gave me sunset loveShe was grass-stainedMore Like This
with bleeding, bare-foot
because she’d always said
that shoes were for porcelain girls
afraid of callous skin.
and she was not fear.
when it crept in on white
she would make lions of trembling girls,
which craved and devoured
from her temples
You can't hurt me anymore.
i am not a writer.i do not know how to write.More Like This
i do now understand the concepts and the themes; words are just shapes pressed together in an attempt to say what my tongue cannot and the phrases are already so clogged in my throat that i am a champagne bottle with all the fizz and none of the pleasure. ink stains and pencil smears and typewriters break so that i am left with nothing but ripped shards of paper falling around my elbows and piling around my feet in an attempt to sculpt meaning out of the absence of what i was meant to fill.
you see, writers know the way to phrase and they know the brush they have in their hand. it is careful and planned and the art is in the crafting and the hours of sweat that is put into every syllable. it is a labor of love and loving labor and when the final punctuation is added, there is not a comma or curvature of letter that has not been pampered and ushered into final resting place.
i, however, do not know how to write.
no, instead i know how to spit up memories and