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to wrap you up in words
would be impossible.
but grace spends hours
listening to the clock tick a time unneeded
while fumbling and grumbling
through chapped lips,
with words and sentence fragments
that stumble clumsily
around her mouth
as she waits impatiently for the right ones
to show themselves,
so she may grasp them between her fingers
and present them proudly to all whom
wonder about her love.
but they just won't
and grace sits here seething at the words selfishness,
that may force them out until...
you snap something harsh
in a peppermint voice
and she's off her rocker again.
grace has never been one for
dramatic exits and rubbing salt into wounds.
but to meticulously make her way
would cause insanity to froth
in the corner of her mouth.
so she smiles and grabs the arsenic
from your reach, and giggling in a bubbly way
proceeds to make a game of life.
with the advantage between her breasts
she swigs from a bottle of wine
and offers you the rest.
you take it
but save it for later.
temporarily suspended in limbo
grace takes the time to
readjust her conscience and train of thought
before blinking glitter from her eyelashes
to fall on your oh-so-close cheek.
she doesn't appreciate how
you make her quiver so,
without, what seems to be, hardly trying.
tracing the back of her teeth with her tongue
she sighs out the petty stream-of-consciousness
until all that is left
is a meditative state of listening to you breathe
and trying to imagine what goes on
in your multi-colored brain.
but grace doesn't have to wait for long,
and your lips are shy and soft
like caramel and other sweet things.
and then the english language flexes
and begins to mold with her emotions.
'you are a night in the movie theater, watching
scene after scene, those shooting stars you only
see the tail end of, my inspiration for what color to
paint my finger nails, one of those moonlit paths
that glitter with faery essence, off and on, the
second reason why my best friend can't look me
strait in the eye without smirking leaving me in a
rut of contemplative arguments between me myself
and i, a smiley face on the bathroom wall beside
one of those hideous notes that leaves you
blushing in embarrassment, a driving class, the
aftermath of a can of monster, that warm slick
feeling in the back of your throat when you inhale
steam, an electrocution, the reason why i started
going to the gym, a spilled glass of orange juice
shattered across black and white tiles, an old guitar
with brand new strings, why i no longer wear
mascara, a walkway lined with tin cans and
candles, deep like your poetry that never gets out
for the world to digest, the publisher of my
dreams, earphones turned up to the point of
insanity, a wish on an eyelash or a necklace clasp,
the empty place in my locket, a hair clip, the frothy
edges of a wave cascading across sand dunes in a
tsunami, a zebra gum kiss, a limb that's fallen
asleep, a heavy heartbeat, the reason i know i am
grace understands now, why
in hollywood they always let things slide.
so she sketches your eyes into the corners
of her notebooks while listening to you express
emotions gurgling up from
biting back hurt but smiling with genuine happiness.
she's has never felt this way before.
she's never been protective,
and she never needed to crave attention.
but despite the now yellowed bruises
on her chest and temples
from the malignant past,
she finds herself waking solely for you.
'i love you. really.'
it's those ends or eyes of the storms
that she breathes for.
grace has never been one of intense virtue
but she believes it's impossible
to wrap you up in words
because there hasn't been a single one invented