NEXT TIME

And the next time you try to tell me who he is I will crumple the poem held in my hand and I will throw it at your face, hoping you will open it up and read everything you have never understood. You have never understood that he is like a house fire, dangerous and contagious, crashing through doors and windows erupting, catching everyones attention. He is the words stuck under my fingernails and the not so catchy melody stuck in my head. He’s the kind of poison in fairy tales, the kind that keeps the story alive. He’s not prince charming riding in on a stallion, nor is he a gentleman that performs chivalrous acts. He’s broken and dangerous and so sharp around the edges that I bleed when I touch him. His lips are like medicine, causing mine to swell when they touch, pulsing and racing. He’s an acrobat too, climbing and flipping through the bars of my ribs- residing in a one bedroom apartment right above my heart. The smirk on his mouth turns my skin inside out and with each dangerous glance my palms sweat while my ears ring with the words “I’m yours.” His charm overcompensates for his lips quivering with the uneven beat of his heart. If he told me to pack up my suitcase and meet him at the airport in an hour, I would. Even if there’s no guarantee of him being there waiting-I’d still go. Because he is excitement and bliss, he’s the paper weight crushing my chest and the tears on my knuckles at night. No one has ever made me feel so empty, no one has ever made me feel so alive. It’s a tragedy of happiness, an advantageous magic and it is what is keeping my lungs filled with something other than air.