I think my love language
is all of you
it does not even exist
to write it down.
I do not know how I function
with my guts
pulled apart by life.
People leave, then they come back
changed, a new unsuspecting
death surrounding them.
They introduce their partners
as “this is the love of my life”
and inside we smirk and gossip
(are they serious? does she not
hate her husband?)
Are they revived? or is it a trap?
Give me an example
of a Poet in a sentence.
Christina Strigas is no poet
Is it a lie?
Define poet.
I believe my dictionary has been stolen
by dead poets.
Life deals you a card
uses psychological illnesses
to define you. You never
even imagined
you were an inspiration
or even a survivor.
I am preparing to combat
my internal war
with swords as words
and love as ammunition.
I need poetry more than ever
to hold my sanity
in a safe place
for a little while longer.
My definition of myself
keeps shifting
like earthquakes.

Photo Credit: Magdalena Roeseler Flickr via Compfight cc


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