Light Writes Poetry

!!20!! —MOST OF MY POETRY CONTAINS ANY RANGE OF GRAPHIC CONTENT, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.— None of y’all know me irl, I SWEAR DON’T LOOK INTO IT DON’T-

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Thorn Adorned Roses.

!!--Hey! Content Warning--!!

This poem contains no mature themes, but it's pure fluff and yearning incredibly sappy and full of romance.

!!Recommended reader age: none!!

Reader's discretion is advised!

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You’re starting to feel like home, But I’m starting to feel like I’m losing my mind. My breaths coming out normal, Natural with you, Instead of hiding them like I usually do, The rhymes come out like clockwork too. Like the sun finally coming up again After an Alaskan winter, Straight into a Midnight Sun. But I don’t even know your middle name yet.

Loving you is as natural as a breath of fresh air, As a gentle breeze cooling your face on a heated day, As wildflowers growing in between the perfectly cultivated rows of a freshly-tilled farm.

Why did you have to Let me get attached? So instantly? So quickly? So immediately? I like to keep people at arms length, But I prefer you in my arms. Still, I keep the monsters locked away. The cellar is welded shut. The doors drywalled and painted over. I don’t want you to go in. Not you. I can’t gather the seed pods now, You already made the wish, Blown the seeds as far as the eye could see. I can’t gather the pieces again if you leave.

I can’t tell you the worst of what I’ve done, The worst that I’ve seen, The worse places I’ve been, The worst that I’ve felt bruised And etched into my skin. I can’t bring myself to tell you the full truth. Not you, I can’t lose you. Not when my lungs finally feel full again without the nicotine. You took my breath away but with you I can breathe again. Please don’t leave. I can’t handle if someone leaves again. Please just let me keep breathing again. With you, it’s too natural. It feels with you like I’ve found an old friend. Someone who’s seen past the gates before, But you’ve barely even peeked inside. The vines weave so densely around me, I can see them in my head, smell the floral scent as you reach your hand through the chain links, Through the crosshairs. Don’t get caught in the crossfire. My vines may be fireproof by now, but I’ve been burned so often before. I don’t want you to burn too. I’m not used to the care, Or the kindness, Or the love, Or the blindness. it comes so naturally to you. Like loving me was the easiest thing in the world to you. But it couldn’t be. I’ve never been easy to love. I’ve been notoriously difficult to love. Hard to even like most days. Too intense, unnatural, too much. But when I look into your eyes I don’t feel as harsh anymore. The way you look at me feels like the sandpaper I needed To smooth my harsh edges. Like refining the shards of glass Into brilliant gems. Like bringing to life what I’ve always wished I could feel like. It comes so naturally to you. And it’s terrifying to me. Because what if By the time the seed pods Bury themselves deep enough to grow, To spread, To stay, What if by then You’ve found the key? And you’ve stepped into the cellar? And you find the monsters? You find the reason why the garden has been so empty of anyone beyond the flowers and vines? What if you find the thorns beneath the yellow roses? Touch the thorns gently, please. Don’t prick your finger. I’d let the foliage rot before I’d let it draw the petals from your skin. I know firsthand just how sharp these thorns can be. Don’t let these thorns scare you away. A dull ache blooms in my chest At the mere thought of being left again The thorns scratch up as they grow through my throat, I try to form words but I can barely form A natural breath, A sting in my chest at the thought of you Finding a garden much more worthy of your fertilizer. Other gardens have strong blossoms Filled with sunflowers and snapdragons Calla lilies and magnolias Meadowsweets and cosmos. But my garden is full of bramble bushes. Yellow carnations, buttercups and celosia dangling loosely from the branches, Rhododendrons lining my gates, And petunias lining the rocky trail. But look past the thorns and I promise You'll find honeysuckle. And red tulips, red carnations. White lilies and bright daisies. Apple blossoms hanging visibly off the oak trees If you just listen to the cornflowers. I know I'm a wild rose, But my petals are dark red in the right lighting, Darker as you cast your shadow further upon me.

I'm well aware of the contradictions. Look closer, But don't look at all. Come through the gates, But stay off the path. Don't get closer, But I beg you to stay. I don't know what I want. All I know is that I want you. More than I could ever dare to admit. The barbs of your wire have wound around me Digging into my skin and sticking into me. I feel the petals fall to the ground as I struggle to get away. Wait, Why am I trying to get away anyways? The further you step into the garden, The brighter it seems to become. Your rays of sunshine penetrate through The most stubborn of my shadows. You keep finding keys to every gate That I've placed in your way. You continue to treat my weeds like they're flowers, Tugging on my dandelions Just to disturb the soil, Just to make me bloom even further. I didn't even know I could grow this much. You seem to know just what to do with each blossom I show you. You seem to pour your heart out Over my cardinal flowers and canna lilies. You beam down on my zinnias and lantanas. Your warmth brings my hibiscus to full bloom. Somehow, you stopped my wilting lisianthus, And brought my orchids back to life. The further you step. Through the gates, Past the locks, The more you seem to open me up. Like flipping through the pages Of an old dusty book, The paper yellowed with age, But the spine perfectly solid, in tact. Like anyone else had simply walked past it. Not bothered to flip through the pages. You stand there reading my words for hours. Line by line, Stanza by stanza Paragraph by paragraph. Still, somehow, you stay. Reading my horror story As if it were perfect poetry. You understand me too well. You watch when I write, Catching when my ink Starts to bleed across the lines. Wiping the mistakes clean Instead of smearing the pigment. You know the words I’m going to write on the page Before I even decide how to phrase it. You read my body language The way I read the language of the flowers. You read me The way I read my vintage poetry. Like I’m inspiring, not wilting. I learned your middle name today. A perfect middle name for such a perfect person. You see my flaws And instead of running away You sew me up. Running stitches lining my petals In brilliant strings of golden thread. Gold reminds me of you now. The shimmering light of the color Reminds me of the kindness in your eyes. You’ve unlocked the cellar door. You peeled away the paint and drywall And twisted your key in the door. You’ve found the monsters, found my secrets. You’ve found the things I’ve kept hidden. You didn’t run. You’re staying. With a smile. And honestly? That’s almost scarier. Because you’re painting my carnations. You’re watering my roses, Repotting my lilies, And tasting the honeysuckle nectar. It’s never tasted this sweet before. Your wires wrap tighter around me, But I’ve stopped struggling altogether. The barbs don’t feel sharp anymore. In fact, the barbs weren’t barbs at all. You still had my thorns in your hands. You plucked my thorns away before I could notice. But Instead of tossing them away, Or running, You stopped to admire them. Stopped for a moment. To learn the curve and the color. Learned the sharpness of the tips, And found how they all lean slightly left. I opened the rest of my gates to you. And I handed you the rest of the keys. You cradled the golden metal In your hands Like the purest form of treasure. I didn’t even notice The keys were your color Until you smiled about the connection. We’ve walked through my garden together. Pointed out our favorite flowers, Watered the Peruvian lilies and irises, Watched as the ivy Grew around the fences, My hand locked in yours. And I never noticed That a garden all of your own Full of flowers and vines and beautiful trees Was right next door the whole time.

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Still, It's Always You.

!!--Hey! Content Warning--!!

This poem contains no mature themes, but it's pure fluff and yearning incredibly sappy and full of romance. I do drop a singular f-bomb but purely for dramatics.

!!Recommended reader age: none!!

Reader's discretion is advised!

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I haven’t written in a while. Not because I don’t love to write, Because writing has always been my passion.

I guess it just felt Like I’d lost my passion. Like my flame was snuffed out By heartbreak, By new beginnings, By unavoidable pain.

But I think that was just An excuse.

Because I know what I lost. I had lost my muse.

I was just simply in denial So deep that it could flood the deserts. Deeper than the deepest seas, And longer than the longest rivers.

I lost you in search of romance. The kind that would fill novels And bookstore shelves. Romance stories of treasure and splendor. The kind that was always a cliche in movies And unrealistic in real life. Rose petals in a trail leading to a happily never after.

I was searching for stanzas in eyes that were a little too icy blue, Or entirely too warm hazel. Searching for rhymes in touches That never quite felt right Unless it was slipping from my fingertips, Like water flowing through a sewer grate.

Like trying to write With pencils that never quite fit my hands, Or ink that never quite dried long enough. Not before it inevitably smudged across the paper.

I was searching for lyrics In people that I thought I loved As deeply as I’d loved before. That I thought I could dedicate Shakespearean lines to. That I thought would bring me to write symphonies Instead of telling me that my music is too loud.

Instead of telling me that my sound is Too angry, Too destructive, Too painful, Too much variety, Too much, When to you, it would’ve just been funny. And we would’ve laughed together That same huffing laugh that I unconsciously stole from you.

I was searching for something new. Something that felt less fleeting. Something that felt more permanent. More robotic and mechanic, Automatic, And less human. An inspiration That felt normal. That I should desire instead of what I deeply wish for.

I should’ve buried my true desires years ago. Dug a deep hole In that acre of land that I used to look out at While thinking of what it would be like To run around in the grass, And the dandelions, And the Queen Annes Lace with you, And bury my cravings deep in the soil That grew plants just as resilient and unrelenting as The idea of your lips on mine. Just once.

I just knew I needed to find a new muse. But really… I always knew my muse was you. It has always been you.

It's always been that curly brown hair. That I craved to run my fingers through, And brush for you when you couldn’t, And cry when you finally decide to cut it Since it’s already down past your shoulders.

It’s always been those eyes. Those fucking beautiful eyes That seem to always make me nervous when I look directly into them. Those eyes That look at me Like I’m a person and not a burden, Despite you seeming so annoyed by me.

It's always been that voice That sounds irritated, But gets lower when you get tired, And higher when you get playful, And has a certain flair that makes me able to hear When you’re smiling at something stupid that one of us Has said or done. That voice That always knows how to make me laugh, And that never seems to stop Singing that stupid Christmas music, When it’s not even close to Christmas.

I act like I hate it, But I've always loved it, Because it lets me hear your voice just a little more.

I act like I hate you. That you irritate me beyond belief. That you’re the most annoying person alive. But I’ve always loved you. I’ve always loved you more than a best friend. More than I should. Especially when I shouldn’t. I just know you don’t feel the same.

But even then, You will always be my muse. With that beautiful hair you always cover with a hat, And those beautiful eyes that you always covered with sunglasses, And that beautiful voice that you always fill with annoyance, Despite always answering my calls.

You will always be my muse, No matter who I am to you. Whether I’m a stranger noticing you from across the english classroom, Or I’m a new friend inviting you to sit with my group at lunch, Or I’m your best friend graduating from high school beside you, And staying your best friend for years to come.

Your best friend, That you haven’t left yet. Even as I slowly break down, And my joints turn to bone, And my bones to dust, And my dust blown in the wind.

Even as I silently wish to be your love. To love you as openly as I desire. To love you as you deserve to be loved. In a way that would absolutely horrify a mental health professional, But exhilarate a poet like me.

No matter who I am to you. Stranger. Friend. Best friend. Possibly a lover if I ever become so lucky. Or even if we were to become unlucky enemies. You, my dearest. My most desired. My best friend. You are always my muse. Always have been, and forever will be.

Even if you are my favorite annoying and insufferable asshole.

Always my beloved muse.

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Hanahaki Breath.

!!--Hey! Content warning!--!!

This poem contains themes and slightly graphic imagery based on medical conditions and birth defects that have a chance of making (and are intended to make) the reader uncomfortable.

!!Recommended reader age: 16+!!

Reader's discretion is advised!

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Spring is my least favorite season. Despite how pretty the bees are, the nectar isn’t worth the sting. The minor inconvenience to you The swollen tongue and throat only slightly irritating, more-so tender to you, The same thing that could plant me among the flowerbed. I’m sorry for blowing out the dandelion, I had to cough, I couldn’t breathe.  My three allergy medications aren’t effective against the pollen of your brutal attention, My periwinkle flowers acting as both the cork to my esophagus, And my wall from normality. Berlin and China can’t compare. If I could just cough hard enough To clear the cork I’d give everything to do it But it’s lodged so deep that it won’t move. I am as stuck with it as it is inside me. My need for relief  Is so inconvenient for you,  I know, But this is not a matter of simple comfort. This is not a matter of trying to scare you. This is a matter of life or death. I need to survive. Im sorry that’s inconvenient for you too, I was just trying to survive. Knowing I inconvenience you Has scared me more Than I could ever scare you. I hide it from you to the point I can’t hide it anymore And even then, I force it down. I swallow the pollen  And it hurts. It’s a pain like stingers dragged down my throat. but it’s okay. As long as you are comfortable. As long as you can’t catch it, You are okay. As long as my diseased petals are not seen, As long as you don’t have to feel what I feel, Everything is okay, I promise.  The hanahaki pressure in my lungs, so much to steal away my breath, still not as much as the pressure of the stranger watching me The disgust in her eyes completely blocking my windpipe, As if I could breathe at all in the first place.  I was breathing too hard, anyways. The sharp stabbing in my throat not as sharp as the daggers of the tongue of the onlooker Their words needed to stab a little harder, Just a little deeper, An extra red petal dripping as far as they could take it, The metallic taste almost too much to handle.  My iron was low, anyways. It’s as if, to the outside world, my hurt didn’t hurt enough. But as long as you are okay, Everything is okay, right? I know, to you I sound sick. But my sick isn’t contagious. My sick is me sick of you listening too much with deaf ears. Blind to the fact that I don’t want me to clear my throat either. You can’t smell the fear of me needing to cough, Or maybe you can and you just don’t want to see That feeling it hurts as much as you experiencing it secondhand You don’t want to care.  But I don’t want to scare you, This knowledge, my sixth sense. I am scared of scaring you, But I am scared of dying more.