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Love me until oblivion paints your portraits on my eyelids, sinking by eons into distance that never separates us.

Stephanie Briar

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The day I made peace with my pain was the day I was born again.
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Anxiety 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.
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I was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.
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Love me until oblivion paints your portraits on my eyelids, sinking by eons into distance that never separates us.
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I fall headlong into everything that lights me on fire. I know not of restraint. I was born to burn.
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Light finds you just as I once did: an accident that is no accident.
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I erected cities with adoration on my tongue and you burnt mine down in the wake of your love.
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Our memories lurch to a reluctant halt in their funeral march, so I can pour salt over them one last time.
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When I was a child, I used to fear monsters under the bed. I have since learned that most monsters are found within. And they are always worth fighting.
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I am a phoenix living in a culture of vultures.
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In the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.
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He’ll keep some daying and tommorwing until he has no tomorrows left. I don’t choose that.
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Stop accepting abstract noun love. Real love is always action verb.
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The glint of mischief in your eyes is the flint in my matchstick. Striking; always this close to igniting.
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Emotion = Energy in motion.
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Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.
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