your brushstrokes
aren't myne-
i don't paint that way-
my words don't fall carefully-
don't tip toe-
don't rush to meet you and run over you
like water-
my well is dry-
overflowing-
and never predicatable.
i don't complete my sentences like you-
instead i struggle
with the dark comets inside-
as they rush
to get on some sort of pattern-
so that the lords of this world
can map them-
can tell the people
that they aren't omens-
aren't warnings against this gurl.
silliness
is what theses shoes hold
and you can't bear my closets-
there are fabrics tumbling out of this mouth
and i don't begin to fold them-
i can't offer you this heart
because it only beats for the blood

and somehow i made it out alive-
am still living with this organ
that keeps demanding
that it would be better off left.

these fingers itch for paint
and you can't teach me that-
so i look up to you
and motion to the stars-
carry them down from the moon's gardens
and lay them at your feet-

i don't have bitterness bound in my posture
but you can't begin to unravel
what i won't let go.

give me moments.
to tie up this hair-
let down my wings
and just enjoy the night.

-a.