I’d ask you to give me a kiss and half-deny it.
How much I want it to come from the petals
of your mouth and apologize for bee stings
and infections after contact. The emergency room
is becoming a home to people like us. We have siren voices
and our bodies are ambulances in realizing that the people
we love most are the people we will hurt deeply.
Kissing wasn’t supposed to feel like a thousand mosquito bites,
but if it was meant to heal, then why do we use our hands
for pushing and picking up broken mirror pieces reflecting blood
from our lips? Why do I keep writing poems when it only
reminds me of pain, of you, and of all of this?
written by This Poem Is About You Again by Kharla M. Brillo (via pouvoires)