But this is what I know: we are both breathing out of lungs
filled with scar tissue and moon craters that will always be empty.
I am miles of self-inflicted birthmarks and you are acres
If your skin were a constellation of tectonic plates,
you would have ripped them all apart by now
and left them to drift in an open sea of blood.
I love your scars not for the feelings behind them,
but for the wonderful reminder that you’re still here.
I love your survival marks in all vowels,
in soft rounded syllables, not in harsh consonants,
and I will always spell-check your wrists for more typos.
But you were never weak,
just trying to make it through the week.
And I wish you didn’t have phantom limb syndrome for the razor;
I wish when it were tucked safely inside the shower
that you wouldn’t hope for it to be within arm’s length.
But in psychology there’s an old practice of running
one’s hands over the bumps on someone else’s head
to discover the feelings and thoughts underneath.
Last night I ran my fingers over your scars instead.
They told me you were beautiful in spite of your pain.
There are bullets embedded in my mouth that I have never fired.
All the words I ever meant to say but didn’t,
all the silences that played Russian Roulette with my tongue.
If I could go back and tell you anything, it would be this:
thousands of snowflakes together are responsible
for an avalanche. It was not me and it was not you,
but the combination of us together
that caused things to simply not work out.
When the planets turn in their sleep and the birds find their wings
when the sky dumps its confetti stars
on the small party of night-watchers below,
I’ll let loose the last bullet from between my teeth.
Until the tarnished metal slips into the open,
until the three words I held inside like insects in amber
are revealed. They were not I love you.
Because I never did.
We’re fifteen feet apart.
I want to reach out and steal your heart from under your sleeve,
But instead I steal glances of your half turned face and
Wonder if you would do the same to me.
I tap my knuckles against the table, so I can say
Dot dot - dash dot - dot - dot - dash dot dot -
Dash dot dash dash - dash dash dash - dot dot dash
Aloud without letting you know that “i-n-e-e-d-y-o-u”.
All they are to you are noises lost in translation, but to me,
They’re every time I have ever cried myself to sleep
Because I’ve suffocated on more words than
Those I have learned to pronounce.
I want to touch your face, but my fingers only know
The way to the inside of my thighs where I scratch
Your name into my flesh at night.
Sleep drained and misguided, I’ll show up at your
Door at night after wading through puddles of
My drawn out heart that sometimes come to my knees.
If you ask me what’s wrong,
I’ll tell you “I’m fine”
Because I don’t understand why you don’t know how
To read between the lines of my mind without
Slipping through the cracks.
Cracked. You’ll shut the door and
I’ll shatter on the floor.