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Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun, from clever minds and bitter hearts.

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Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.
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They build ladders from my spine and they climb and they fall and they break me, and they climb again.
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Sometimes love is nothing more than a sticky web; illusions spun, from clever minds and bitter hearts.
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And that is the nature of us poets and whores, to make things hard: dicks, choices, life.
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We were electric together, you and me; we turned hurting each other into a goddamned symphony.
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I have been covered in easy kisses from uneasy lips, and I know I smell weary again.
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Be bold, child. You are rare and you are brazen light.
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When I told you that I hadn’t been broken before; it wasn’t a fucking challenge.
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If I had known our last kiss was to be our last kiss, I would have kissed you as if it was our first.
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She tasted like wildflowers; crushed, wet wild flowers carried in sticky palms through farmers’ fields, just before dawn.
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I will not force a pretty smile upon my face to please eyes that no longer see me.
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