roseenverre

[roseenverre]

There’s something about those who over-share,

That they are the same ones who under-nourish.

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[roseenverre]

The only dog-eared pages of the Holy book

Are the ones that detail my sins.

It was all lost with a touch and a look,

The Moirai keep vengeful grip on pitiful life strings.

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[roseenverre]

Her touch was a paradox.

Like how your body breaks out in goosebumps

When you sink into a hot bath.

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[roseenverre]

I wish I was the girl who enjoyed climbing trees and scraping her knees,

I wish I didn’t cry at shame or care about pain,

I wish I could throw caution to the wind and dance and sing,

I wish I was a girl who didn’t care, not doomed to stand back and stare.

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[roseenverre]

Sweetness often warms my insides.

Her sticky film coats my throat.

Seeping through my lungs

To burst as radiance through my skin.

Oh the power I could be holding,

If self love had beat her to it.

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[roseenverre]

relief was something bright

and my chest breathed

in a new familiar breath

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[roseenverre]

Did you ever see people who weren’t there?

You saw veins in red wine,

Streaked on the sides of a child’s beaker.

You saw skin on the golden film

That lies silent on scorched flagstones.

You saw fingernails

in the buttons of your mother’s jacket.

Hair in handbags, eyes in light bulbs, teeth in chair legs.

But did the lips in the eye of a needle ever meet cheeks and mouths and gums?

Did the hips you saw in doors ever join to spines and bellies and thighs?

Mine did.

And though they weren’t there, they were friends in the thick mud.

Oh, how I wish they would embrace me now.

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[roseenverre]

We’re crumbling,

Understand that.

That as I take piece after piece

from my body,

No extra pieces come

To take their place.

The hardest part is the knowing

That the pieces I take from myself

Are for no-one but me.

The selfish root of my actions

Remains just that,

Selfish.

Then why do I feel no satisfaction

From the pieces I steal from myself.

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[roseenverre]

I’ve been thinking about how peaches have hearts,

Stone-hard and red as bruises.

They bleed sunset, as do I.

Veins ripple with rock, not lava

And heat with crystal nectar,

Not fire.

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[roseenverre]

You deserve

The smell of sunshine on her skin-

Salted honey thighs

and an ocean breeze smile.

Sticky toffee throat,

with a heat soaked heart.

Hands telling stories of grass and sand,

My summer blooded woman.

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[roseenverre]

I find myself wishing

That I could build a shelter for you.

With my ribs as walls

and my shoulder blades for a roof.

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[roseenverre]

Can you feel the ripples of the force of the flowers that blow in the breeze for you?

Can you read the poem of my thoughts?

Can you see how you are the stinging in my eyes and the tears on my cheeks?

Can I for once see the bloom of your blush?

Rose petals watered by those tears.

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[roseenverre]

They lie to you, in the beginning there is not nothing. There’s a whole life already there for you, complete and rounded, mapped out like the acts of a play. You may not see it, but it’s there, words are already written on a page ready for you to speak loud and clear when the time comes. The key players come out from the wings and give you whatever character development the plot requires and then disappear again.

There may be some comfort in this, or some imprisonment. It makes me feel claustrophobic, like I shouldn't be trapped within these pages or these scenes, like I'd rather have a chance at an uncertain new story than live the one that was written for me by someone else.

I've always been unsure, terrified of stepping out of that lexical boundary to try my hand at walking unaided. Without a path to follow, how might I not get lost?

I've never been the most steady walker.

But maybe leaping from this life is not synonymous with going alone. Maybe I'm to jump into someone else’s life, and maybe we’ll share one life.

And maybe that’s okay, maybe when we do reach that climax and that resolving end of the story, it’ll be as one being rather than two. Maybe my play was not ever my play at all, maybe it was ours.

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[roseenverre]

I have one hand on the blanket,

And one on the grass.

I sometimes imagine myself

Sinking into the ground.

How long would it take?

I wonder.

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[roseenverre]

Souls thud on cracked sun-drenched earth

How it doesn’t break and crumble

Under my weight

I’ll never know.

Colours of green bleed onto my feet

Shedding their dye

Over myself

And all that I tred across.

I feel connected in this moment.

To feet, ground, soil, you.

And even as cracked as this earth,

I am joined to you.

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[roseenverre]

Under a heavy heart

And

Above a shy smile

I miss you.

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[roseenverre]

There is a sweet pressure on my chest,

A kind aching in my bones

Comes

With the press of

Beating heart against beating heart.

The clouds of her hair sail on my cheek,

And the soft breeze of a whisper

Ripples

Across rosy blush

Creasing under that persistent smile.

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