I was taught
love
was the
wrong details
of an oil painting.

—

the image:
a blanket
wrapped around
a stranger
in a desert night,
desperately trying
to keep warm
by a fire.

—

I was taught
the only way

for anyone
to love me

was for them
to light me
ablaze

stack of
kindling
Destroyed
by lover’s
presence.

—

I longed for that
feeling.

my heart
prickling
with shards of flame,

smoldering myself
to death
as I fell asleep.

—

i fantasised
about
the next
oxygen starved
donkey punch
to the chest.

—

i’ve been
romanticizing
wrong
painted details
so long,

When he
tried to whisper,

“darling,
you are much more
than broken branches,”

i could not
hear him.

—

I was
deathly high,
flying,
dust in the wind,

reminiscing
my own
tortured ashes.

—

When all
you’ve known

is the burn
of a
direct flame,

you become
numb
to
warm kindness
of a fleece blanket.

—

You forget
you are subject,

meant to survive
the arid desert
with a loving touch.

—

But everyday
your nerves
come
one step closer
to healing themselves
in this love
you’ve found.

—

Let it
snuggle in
through your veins,

repair
altitude busted
ear drums,

to ensure
survival
another night.

—