I don't actually have a title for this one.

I read somewhere

That if the poem is good

Then the words will be hard

To write.

This must be

A goddamn masterpiece

Because I have been tangled in these words

Like bedsheets

Like seaweed

Like the hair that turned curly after I left home for college

Since you kissed my forehead and told me

To stay

Warm.

 

You held me to you

Like a secret

And you told me

The skin of my palms

Was softer

Than anything you’d felt

And I am not capable

Of harm.

 

I wish this was not true.

 

How unfortunate it is

To be so fragile.

How cruel it is

To be so soft

In a world cornered

With corners

And edges

And angles.

 

I wish I could be harmful.

I wish

Each shiver

Down my spine

Elicited ripples of thorns

Each demure pooling

Of blush

Could be blistering

To touch.

I wish I had a stare

That left ice in your throat

And a kiss

To push you

Into love.

 

Something less inviting

 

Something a little more frightening.

So that if you are tempted

To hold me

It will not be because

I smell like warm skin

And soft hair.

If you are tempted to tell me

I feel like home, to you,

Maybe the words

Will be

True.

 

you kissed my forehead

and told me to stay

Warm.

well it’s early morning

and I’ve never felt colder than i do right now

but somehow

the skin

of my palms

are soft.