Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.
STEPHANIE BRIARYour darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.
STEPHANIE BRIAROur memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
STEPHANIE BRIARWhen you focus on directing your energy away from harm and toward healing, you feed the soul and starve the ego.
STEPHANIE BRIARCan hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.
STEPHANIE BRIARAnxiety is living with an apple on your head and you imagine that everyone you know stands watching with a bow to shoot an arrow at it.
STEPHANIE BRIARHow do you sleep soundly, knowing you traded roses for weeds?
STEPHANIE BRIARIn the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.
STEPHANIE BRIARPoetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.
STEPHANIE BRIARLast night, I sent you home with a kiss and a promise. I hope you still believe in roses.
STEPHANIE BRIAROur story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.
STEPHANIE BRIARIn my dreams we got past the parking lot; you took me past the old, oak door, led me up onto the vacant altar, and offered me to every god whose name you invoked as you worshipped my body.
STEPHANIE BRIARIn my dreams you conjure me like a spell in the night. Let us haunt one another with uneasy peace, and die burning alive.
STEPHANIE BRIARThe glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.
STEPHANIE BRIARStanding in your power scares a lot of people. You become something formidable, intimating, and aspirational all at once.
STEPHANIE BRIARWe usually seek the divine in the sky, But religion is best found on the ground. Nature is our true creator.
STEPHANIE BRIARAs if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.
STEPHANIE BRIAR