“… gestures I should not love, but love.”

Ask me to leap into gasoline and
call me a spark. Call me a flame.
I swear, I am searching for reasons
to drop to the floor and roll myself
dull but you’ve placed in me a chill
so that I am constantly yearning to
get burned to a crisp. This is me now.
I am greedy and hollow. I am restless
and unsatisfied. I am forest of
desires longing to be an eternal inferno.
I need scorching heat to beat this
melancholia. I need blackened gases
to travel thoroughly through my lungs
and choke me to highs no cool can gift.
I am a masochist at her peak. I am a
user in desperate need of a hit. I know
the crash is around the corner. I
know it’s inescapable. I am aware that
my limbs, once fallen, will not rise
like the wings of a phoenix. I am
already without glory or grace; I
am not destined to fill skies with
endless beauty. At my best, everything
I am is romanticized damage. I am the
product of flirting with fire. I
am burnt out – mere grey ash lying
lifeless here before yourself,
but listen to me please; I think I
might love you, even though I know
that this is irrelevant now. I love
you, and I know that doesn’t change
a thing. I love you, and the only
reason this I love you is special is
because it’s the first time I’ve had
the courage to put these three words
down in a poem.

I know; it’s always been the words I
don’t say that can move mountains.

 

*Disclaimer: The title of this poem is a line from Henrietta Goodman’s poem “Descent”.

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