skysaredoorwayshome:

i.

She had white skin, paper mached by
days spent caged where light tore it’s
fingers bloody trying to reach her, and 
so she never carried sunlight on her tongue. 
Instead, she had the light of an albino 
moon freckling her skin, broken only 
by the shadow of a horse’s mane, or 
wavering blue bird wings. She had 
black hair, night stained waves falling
into the shores of shoulder blades in
the back, and flooding out to the sea 
of piercing clavicles in the front, deep
like sea creatures, drifting, her body
always drifted towards mine, with red 
lips carrying blood to my sharp cheek-
bones because she’d been asking a 
broken, torn buck for guidance, and 
after soft, trembling kisses, his blood
became the sacrifice to the blush in 
my skin. Her pulse thumped in the
rhythm of a bird song, because her
vertebrae was winged, only she 
couldn’t fly because her hair tangled
her back into hushed, black stillness.

ii.

She had hallowed out bones, white as 
the paper mache of her skin. They carried
the howling of wolves like flutes, when
she shivered I knew it was the song of a 
blue-bird finding home in her spine, 
shaking her body. She had a wind 
throat, that was the only way she breathed
and when she fought, she carried the fire
of a phoenix in the flamed arrows of a
buck’s spine, the white daggers of a 
bear’s teeth to slice skin red. But her own
skin did not glow with death – she was
breathing from the kiss of sweet lips, some-
thing so alive, you could hold it in between
your tongue, and the spaces sensitive to
wind between your teeth. She fought with
a tingling in her spine, a fired arrow, a 
breath resonating off of her ruby red lips. 


iii.

She made love with tracks in the snow,
because when it snowed, that’s where 
my animal prints were encased. Her
fingertips could trace home in the 
earth for anything she was seeking, 
and it would come. A falcon, a fawn,
small and terrified, a dove to cry 
the sad songs incased in her wind-
chime heart strings to the wind so 
they could light, like matches, and 
sigh aflame into the sky as rays of
sunlight, as butterflies and dust,
flying to lands she would never 
venture to. And sometimes me,
a tall, gangly child, with fingertips
tasting red apples on a desperate 
whim to hush a loneliness cradled
on his tongue – a taste only the 
white snowfall of her chest could 
unravel and season cinnamon,
with bones streaking her skin 
like warrior paint, I kissed 
mostly her hips sometime her
fingertips, because of the magic
I could gently tear, take a piece
of paper mache to carry her magic
in my own palms. I cherished her 
eyes blue as sea waves the most, 
and as for me, I cherished my 
lips most, the only way I knew
how to awaken her.

iv.

she fought only for a land the color 
of her skin; she was the taste coursing 
through a forests pulsing veins. 

(via skysaredoorwayshome-deactivated)