stop dying your way into my writing.
you are not a corpse and this is not your coffin.
you have been wounded, torn apart in battleground of other loves.
you ran; back to the only home you knew, back to lines of writings.
back to being a flower in a garden made only for you.
to sunsets so beautiful you forget how to breathe.
to kisses that taste like whiskey and honey, and so much summer.
i have held your bleeding palms in mine, turned your bruised knees into bodies of art, made roses from the red under your eyes.
i know better now.
i know better than to open myself into a funeral home for you.
i know better than to bury you in the back of my throat or to speak you in every word.