I Want To Lose Myself In Your Love

The flowers inside of me are withering,

Blues, pinks, and purples—

All fading away.

Where did the time go?

I’ve watered the garden within me,

Ive been vigilant.

So why?

Tell me why the colors are vanishing,

Tell me why I am fading away,

And listen before I go.

Tell me of the times I was vibrant inside,

Remind me of my favorite songs,

And all I used to be infatuated with.

Plant a new garden inside of me,

This time, you can have the seeds

And the watering can.

For I do not trust myself with them anymore.

I wish for bluebells

And lilac petals this last time around,

Then I will finally be able to rest.

Beautiful creature 👽

You definitely are 🖤🖤🖤

She does not know

how I love her with the kind of ache

that gnaws through bone

and drinks from the marrow.

Even when her smile blooms

for another's dawn,

I gather my own ruin

just to make her laugh,

as if her laughter

could stitch the torn seams

of my unraveling soul.

I do not touch her skin

to feel warmth...

I touch her silence,

her chaos,

her dreams curled like fists in sleep.

When I kiss her,

my lips meet her heart,

I am drinking from the chalice

of every life she’s lived before me.

I am not licking her body,

I am tasting her soul.

I am not undressing flesh,

I am peeling open the pages

of her heart’s forbidden scriptures,

reading with reverence

the verses no man has dared recite.

Our love,

if it can be called that,

is no polished jewel.

It is a rose

born in rot,

drowned in rain,

fed by sorrow,

suffocated in shit,

burnt by longing.

Still, it grows,

bloody petals,

razor-edged thorns,

aching upward for a sun

that forgets it daily.

She wounds me without malice,

yet I kneel in thanks.

Each time she leaves,

she takes the breath

but leaves the lungs,

so I may remember

what drowning in her felt like.

Even now,

knowing I will never be

the reason her eyes glow,

I carve poetry from pain

to gift her joy,

like a madman

plucking out his own ribs

to build her a cradle of light.

Let the last tree fall,

let the stars bleed out

in the throat of the sky.

Let the oceans forget their names,

and even after they become dust,

I will still love her;

not because she is mine,

but because loving her

taught me how to survive

a fire that asks for nothing

but to burn

and burn

and burn.

She is not mine.

She is no one's.

But I am hers...

even after the last songbird

chokes on dust.

-Cyrus K

2 April, 1937 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

I hold my brother on my lap,

I don't tell him to calm,

Or hush his sobs,

He does that himself.

I cannot stop his world ending,

But I am his sister, and as long as I stay,

He has a part of his world still there.

You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.

Ray Bradbury

so soft it hurts

I am not trapped.

I am abandoned.

There is no fight left in my limbs

no fire left in my chest

Only the heavy, sinking knowledge

that I have lived too long

in a body that was never mine to keep.

I do not recognize this face

these hands,

this voice that cracks like old pavement

every time I try to speak

I used to scream for help.

Now I don’t even bother whispering

No one listens to a woman

who dug her own grave.

We scroll past

starving children

to buy shoes we don’t need

and call it life.

Babies are born

with lungs full of poison,

their bodies warped

by toxins we dumped for profit.

Mothers wrap sons

in flags

like it softens

the sound of a coffin closing.

We skin the earth

for gold and oil

and hang it on our necks

while forests burn

and oceans bleed.

We worship Gods

but not Their creation.

Pray louder

than we love.

Animals scream in silence.

Children rot in camps.

Water is sold.

Air is dying.

Truth is filtered.

Kindness forgotten.

We kill over dirt

though we are made of stars.

We hoard

while others die thirsty.

This is not a world,

it is a graveyard

we are still digging

with our eyes wide open.

-Cyrus K.