Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

“I loved the way she touched me, the way she ran her hands over my past without reservation.”

Her hands trace over your body,

And as they move down your neck

The butterflies in your stomach

Melt into a solid mass

Of fear and uncertainty

For what her hands will find…

The scars you’ve tried to hide

In your summer hoodies

And forced affinity for jeans.

 

Her fingers reach your shoulder,

Burning a trail down your arm,

But the heat it quickly replaced

With an empty regret.

Reflexes kick in, and the tears begin,

Until you realize her hands,

They never stopped.

 

You expected a shudder,

A slight intake of breath,

But no; she never wavered.

She gave the same affection,

From your head to your wrists.

You know she couldn’t have missed it,

The war you’ve etched into your skin.

Yet she acted as if those scars

We’re just another part of you.

That thought alone

Is enough to make you cry.

 

You begin to pull away,

But she holds your arm in place.

Her touch is still fire,

And you feel that if she stays

You’ll both end up as ash.

Still, she won’t let go.

Even more so, her lips find your wrist,

And her fire has turned into the Sun.

 

It’s crazy, because you know,

Those scars are there forever.

They will fade, but never disappear.

But in that moment, you could swear

Those scars didn’t mean a thing.

The anxiety is still present,

But so vastly diminished

It might as well be gone.

And in its place, you find

A feeling you thought

You’d never find again;

Acceptance.

 

The scars weren’t erased,

And who can say if her fire

Will be here to stay,

But for a moment, you weren’t afraid

And if you found it once,

You can find that feeling again.

Who knows; maybe one day

You’ll wake up and see yourself

And realize you’ve always deserved

Forgiveness.

 

 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“For every day I spent believing I deserved to be alone, you promised to help me find all of them, so you could show me that there was never a time when I didn’t deserve love.”

When I’m talking to you, I never feel like I’m ever talking “at” you. Like, when I’m telling you a story about work, or about something I did as a kid, or something I imagined I’d do someday, I know your listening. I’m not sure how I know, I just do. It probably has to do with your eyes, and how they might not always be trained on my lips, but they never shift out of focus. Your hands also play a part, because they sit so calmly in your lap, not shifting or shaking, never appearing jittery or anxious to be on the move, except when than make their way into mine. Whenever I’m talking to you, it’s not like I’m just sharing words and stories, I feel like I’m sharing me. I feel like I’m sharing me, with me. You’re a part of me, and as a part of me it’s only natural that I’d share who I am with you. I want to share, and you want to share. When I’m talking with you, it’s like I’m just talking to the best parts of me, the parts I always forget I have. You remind me how much I have to offer this world, and I really, really hope I make you feel the same.