Violet Winters

(September 13 / Baltimore, MD)

Pyro-manic


Oh, Hots,
0 for 2.
And here I though
I could love you.
Why do I bother
to say anything
at all?
Every word falls,
like feathers
drifting down
from the sky.
And any hope
for sweet moments
are gone before the ink dries.
Your capacity for romance,
I should have known,
is much further below
what I had first guessed.
I should have realized
your tenderness
dries up once you're dressed.
And you
should have seen
that a woman like me
values
her own satisfaction
over petty loyalties.
When I wander (and I will)
blame
my spicy blood.
And blame your own inhibitions
for not being
enough.
Long days in bed,
Kisses
on the forehead,
Talks about nothing,
and unprovoked touching
are what
feeds a soul.
I suppose you
didn't know.
I said
I'd stop writing for you.
I can't be inspired
by an un-enthused muse.
I 'll get what I'm craving,
you'll be none the wiser,
I'll play with my matches
and start my own fire.
You didn't know that I miss him,
or that some nights,
I wish for him,
You didn't know
that he means
a world of poetry
to me.
You didn't know
that he darkens
the doors of my dreams.
And it's fitting he's tall,
to fill a door frame and all,
with his
silhouette.
And when he comes for me, know,
that's what you get.
Our chemistry
ignites
on sight
and you're only a placeholder
for these lonely nights.
I can see
we won't make it past winter.
I can tell
that this love muck
we're stuck in
is thinner.
And when I go (and I will)
you should understand this;
you can't love me
with a fire
to ever
rival his.
Blame our
spicy blood
if that's want you want,
but your perception
of us
and the cogs that we're lacing
can't be enough;
and love should be amazing.
He's why my heart races.
While you're cautiously testing this
he's lazily besting us
through sheer existence,
because he makes me sweat,
piping hot, cherry red.
You're the dense action figure
lacking all natural charm,
that I let warm my bed,
And don't you ever
forget it.
Im a born pyro-manic.

Submitted: Monday, July 14, 2014

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