amo amare.
"don't be afraid of love"'

one day this dove will fly, and find a place to rest.
H.D., Eurydice VII

don’t touch me or you’ll break
this soft tendril of reality

that binds me here to you.

i wasn’t like this before,
back when you didn’t exist
(or was I the one that came after?
i can never tell, sometimes.)

i wasn’t meant to love you like this:
like waves crashing hard
against the golden shore.
if you were sky, I’d be Atlantic,

holding tight to the mainland
then pulling back into myself.

and yet, far in the distance
still coming closer

to you.

we meet best in this horizon

where skin is barrier to bone, sinew,

flesh that keeps us here and apart.

dream catcher, sun weaver,
where are you now, if not here?
Stay. push me
onto the expanse of these clouds
and release my name into the wind
as if you’re praying for something
(though we both know you don’t believe.)

don’t touch me hard,
if soft suffices.

let me be the water that parts your lips

when you are parched.

the one that crawls between your toes

rich in salt, and sighs, and tears.
let me slip
between the nooks of your body,
where you fold and unfold yourself for no one else.

I want to see you.
those parts you deemed unworthy

of love are the best of all.

don’t scream my name,
if you can whisper.
sigh it deep into the pillow
on these cold pearlescent mornings
where the fog clings to your face.
that vapor — it will be me
saluting the soft terrain of your lips,
then disappearing once more

into the expanse of your skin.


i’m not asking for chivalry or a token 
of love at your arrival. nothing
is better than a kiss to the neck. asking
for invitation into the intimate
confines of my bed chamber. i don’t want
the soft touch of a flower. i yearn
for the strong hands of a man
that takes like an animal. don’t
be afraid to taint
the white expanse of these bedsheets.
they know nothing of passion or 
love making. don’t be scared
to arch and moan the name of heaven.
see the words dance off your tongue.
and in that instance, you will see 
stars. ask me what i want, and 
i will say “fuck me hard, and fuck
me senseless.” for what sense,
what boundary of logic 
should we search for?
in this fortunate freedom from reality? in this ritual
of skin meet skin, sweat meet sweat, sexual awakening?


do not tell your daughter
that she is worthless —
she’s heard it come enough times
from the lips of strangers 
that criticize the way she walks,
swaying the hips you gave her. 

do not tell your daughter
that she is dirty —
for she was marked 
with stains made by hands
that touched her
without her consent.

do not tell your daughter
that she’s not good enough —
she knows damn well
the girls magazines praise
and wishes she were more like them
even if they don’t exist themselves.

do tell your daughter
she is beautiful.
and wipe the mascara that stains her cheeks
when he tells her he no longer loves her.

tell her that she is more than good enough
to brush herself off and continue walking
because she’s worth more 
than the chime her hips make when she walks.


Thanks for posting this lovely xo Lang 
Love & Misadventure is available online via Amazon, + The Book Depository and Barnes & Noble, Kinokuniya, Books Actually, Fully Booked and other good book stores worldwide. 

There are roads etched on my skin
Of the places you will go to
Marked with people that will love you,
When you venture far from me.

Roads that grew with passing day breaks
Speaking of the new horizons
That would stretch themselves before you
When you took your first true breath

I have this road map waiting
For your eyes to recognize it
When you place your hands upon me
And witness your first true home

Bluegill, Jayne Anne Phillips (via damnnearhysteria)

your name became a prayer
whispered on my lips
when darkness came and washed over
the once brightly lit horizon.
when fears made themselves at home
inside this crevice of muscle and bone