I'll tell you of the children with orange hands;
of lovers lost in a car crash.
I've been diagnosed with "creative writer's depression"
through the black ink trickling in my veins.
You can open my chest,
take away my heart full of fossilized memories
and store my love in your pockets,
holding the madness of a hurricane
while the pages beneath us crinkle
and I am home.

Can you see the waterfalls cascading in our eyes?
Blinding lights and the flicker of a heart beat;
stunned silence etched with a sharp ringing.
We held a cigarette between our fingers
and the pain clenched between our teeth,
each move pushing holes through our ink-stained skin
as the blood runs thin
and we are swimming in cartilage.