Anxiety

"Oh, hello," I say.
It seems you have come to pay
a visit and I am woefully
unprepared for your company.
My anxiety is like a frightened child,
crawling into my bed, inviting me to share
all of it's nightmares so that sleep seems
terribly far away.
It causes my mind to chuckle at
itself. I know this is silly and foolish,
there is no reason, but that is all the
reason I need to want to fight or fly.
My anxiety is sometimes ever present,
sometimes hardly here, sometimes
creeping along the southern walls of
whichever brain's hemisphere, I do not know.
It drops in, uninvited, at the
most random moments.
Whispering nonsense that makes
only sense to my fears.
It wrinkles the blankets,
races my heart up and down my ribs,
like a ladder to some heaven or hell,
knowing very well there is neither.
It wrings its hands against
imagined slights and old debts.
It trembles at phone calls and
knocks upon the door.
It forgets that we must eat,
forgets we must drink,
forgets all but the encompassing
fears.
My anxiety, it is a friend I do not
want to speak with anymore, but
somehow I can't seem to show it the
door.
Only, opening my arms, pretending
I am fine. I am satisfied with this
shell of a life, hugged by a butcher
with a skillful knife.
My anxiety, it kisses me to sleep,
rolls itself into my waking dreams,
shapeshifts into things I think I can't trust,
then back again.
My anxiety is a living, breathing, being.
A guest that refuses to leave.
A child that wants only to share its dreams.
And I am alone with it.

Words

   hurt     wasting    hate     breathless
   heart    time       kiss     screaming
   pain     wishing    embrace  dreamed
   longing  stars      crying   lost
waiting   friend   resolve    alone
hoping    love     never      forgotten.

Timing.

Give your grace to me and maybe open the doors to let me breathe. This isn't about right or wrong, its about unity. I am begging you to see, wishing for a little more time to change reality to fantasy, but its all lost in a second's tick.

The clock keeps ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.

It never ends. It never stops. Your voice is getting drowned out by the clocks. Could you scream a little louder? Your whispers are too soft. Am I losing you in the ticking of the clock?

I keep screaming.
Scream.
Scream.
Scream.

Do you ever hear a word I say? Or is it all just part of the play? Are we getting older or are we just losing composure? I'm not sure where the meaning is in all of this lunacy, but I'm tired of wilting when I'm supposed to be something more.

You've lost that loving feeling.
Love.
Feelings.
Lost.

And the moment is over. We're done. Its all forgotten, because the clock keeps tocking, or maybe its ticking and rhymes are foolish metaphors for the slow, inevitable, decay of humanity.

Isn't it funny?

The Meaning of being the Fat Girl

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like cookies left on the counter.
Like chips with a Fourth of July hamburger.
Like "There are starving kids in Africa, clean your plate."

Fat Girl means Low Self Esteem.
Like lower than pond scum.
Like lower than the molten core of the Earth.
Like so low I've discovered new fossils.

Fat Girl means Voracious.
Like I'll gobble your dick up like a hot dog.
Like I'll do whatever kinky shit you want if you promise to love me.
Like please love me.

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I'll never find it anywhere else so what does it matter if you care?
Like "You're gagging for it, aren't you whore?"
Like "Sex Equals Love."

Fat Girl means Food.
Like Hell Yeah, I know how to cook!
Like I'll have another serving of dessert, please.
Like I'll have what he's having and double it.

Fat Girl means Eating Disorders.
Like I haven't eaten in two days because I can't stand myself.
Like I have thrown up three times for one plate of food.
Like I am binge eating because I am starved.

Fat Girl means Disability.
Like I can't even leave my house because of the anxiety.
Like I can't keep the razor from my skin because I loathe this body.
Like every day feels like an affront to God because I've created a new definition of "imperfect."

Fat Girl means Shame.
Like "You should be ashamed to be seen in public like that."
Like "That's never going to fit you."
Like "You'd be so pretty if you lost weight."

Fat Girl means Choices.
Like I choose food as a weapon and a comfort.
Like "If I stay this way then I'll be safe from being raped."
Like "If I stay this way I'll never find someone to love me."

Fat Girl means Horror.
Like being raped because you are "Easy."
Like being humiliated every time you try to look pretty.
Like so much disgust aimed at me I can hardly breathe.

Fat Girl means Self-Loathing.
Like looking at your reflection and wishing you could just cut it all off.
Like looking at your reflection and wanting to slit your own throat.
Like telling yourself that you couldn't possibly be worth anything.

Fat Girl means Back-handed Compliments.
Like "If only you'd lose weight, you could be so gorgeous."
Like "How much weight have you lost?"
Like "I think this would look good on you, even though you are bigger."

Fat Girl means Easy.
Like I must be dying for the attention.
Like I must be too stupid to realize you'll never love me.
Like I must be easy because who would actually WANT me?

Fat Girl means Pity.
Like who wants to be the fat girl?
Like who could ever possibly want her?
Like "Wow, I feel sorry for her."

Fat Girl means Nothing Fits.
Like being told "We don't have that in your size."
Like being forced to wait in Victoria's Secret because the cashier thinks you're too fat for that thong you're purchasing.
Like everything looks like it was made for a woman thirty years older than me.

Fat Girl means Never Being Comfortable in Your Own Skin.
Like no compliments are ever sincere.
Like no matter how pretty you feel today, you're not.
Like you will never be pretty.

Tattooed

I want to tattoo memories onto my skin.

I wish there was a way to record every moment;
ink it into my subconscious so deep it will never fade,
never soften with age and time,
never become lost or hard to find.

If there were a way, every place I have ever been
would find a home on my skin so that I might look at it
every day. Renew the memories until they aren't just
moments I remember, but moments that I live again and again.

My body would be a map. A legend to find one's way
around the hard times and the beautiful days. A piece
of roaming landmarks and time. A way to keep track of 
where my soul has left pieces; where I have wandered.

My body would be a story. One that did not need unraveling,
unveiling, uncovering. My skin turned into pages, ripe
for discovery and learning. A testament to my life, to my
paradises, my purgatories, my halls of hell.

The ink would never dissolve, the dreams and desires never
fade. I would sew my heart together with lines from poetry,
tattoo the face of the moon into my chest and make the edges
jagged enough to show the wounds I have felt.

Can you tattoo the scent of the ocean into my nose?
The feeling of the rain cascading through my hair?
Is there a way to imprint the sound of thunder in my veins,
stain the lightning across my chest?

Is there a way to carry my memories on my body?
Give them a physical weight, make them vibrant against the
canvas of my flesh? A way to trail the tears down my landscape
so that they puddle into nothingness about my feet?

If there is a way, tattoo your song into my wrists.

Imperfect God

I am not looking to be saved.
Nor, am I looking to be rescued.

I don't need someone to come in and die for my sins.

I need someone who is willing to stand by me through the hard times.
I need someone who is willing to hold my hand through the worst times.

I don't need a God that exists somewhere in the ether.
Possibly listening to me,
Maybe answering,
Maybe not.

Maybe forgiving,
Maybe hateful,
I don't need that.

I need someone who can be God in flesh.
Someone who forgives me,
Someone who loves me,
Someone who takes care of me.
And who is willing to stand by me no matter what happens.

I don't need omnipotence.
I need closeness.
I don't need foreknowledge of what's going to happen.
I need... I need vision.

I need vision to look forward and say,
"Maybe this will happen and maybe it won't, but, no matter what happens, I'll be here."

And the God in Christianity doesn't give me that.
The God of Islam does not give me that.
Buddha doesn't give me that.
None of the Gods give me that.

None of the Gods are FLESH.

I need someone who can hold me when I'm crying.
I need someone who can wipe my tears away.
I need someone to be in love with;
Not just metaphorically speaking.

I don't need righteousness.
I don't need blessedness.

I need fallibility.

I don't want perfect.
I'm an imperfect being.
I want an imperfect God.

Its so much easier to love a God who has fallen short,
than it is to love one who has never fallen at all.

No Rhyme, nor Reason

In my, brief, lifetime there have been many battles lost and won; over hearts come undone and rewoven; over stories that have yet to be spoken into being; over blessings and curses, tears and verses.

Love has been cast, like so many pearls, before the swine; but who can blame a pig for being a pig?
We tell the pig to change his ways, mend a soul to alter appearances. Ah, but those are words for older scars and, really, who and what we are is nothing in the comparison of who and what we could be; will be.

Love comes as a harlot, a wanton, eager for desire and heat. Eager for some kind of belief; the belief that physical attraction is all that is required to make it last.

Love comes as a broken child, lonely and full of grief, eager for comfort and trust. And we all trust love when we see her, because we have been taught to.

Love comes not as a present to be unwrapped, unraveled, undone. Nor merely as a prize to be won. No, Love comes as a thief, a murderer in the night. It steals your soul, sifts through the rubble of your existence, murders your will, shatters your heart. As it breaks, it heals, it conjures and tricks, it flits about in fits.

Love calls upon the pigs and the princesses, it calls upon paupers and kings. It courts death and divinity, plagues baited breath and ribald poetry. It dances through moonlight silences and evergreen wastes; through joy and through pain.

The Idealist

Looking at her, you would never guess that her heart beat like a lioness'.
She drove with the brashness of one who knows the roads, even if she didn't.
She dressed as though no one, but her, would notice her.
She dreamed with all the power that beat in her lioness heart.

They called her a stargazer.
They called her a fool.
They called her a dreamer.
They called her an idiot.

She never listened to them, her mind already taking her somewhere else.
She lived the way she wanted to. She dreamt and she danced.
She moved with the grace of a ballerina and the joy of a bird.
She dared to be an optimist in a world that frowned upon the word.

And when they came to break her spirit, she laughed at them.
When they came to take her joy, she fought back.
When they told her she was an idealist, she embraced the word.
When they tried to drag her down, she rose higher.

They tried to destroy Joan of Arc, but you cannot burn the spirit.
And, like Joan of Arc, she burned at the stake of lust and hatred,
but she did not die. She merely rose higher than any of them could imagine.
She transcended their ignorance and she changed the world with a word.

Imperfection

I have never been what one would call a "heart-breaker."
I have been a heart-mender, a heart-lover, a heart-mother.
I have been afraid of my own heart's desires and wishes.

When I say I've never been a "heart-breaker" I mean to say:
I've never been pretty.
I've never been gorgeous.
I've never been drop-dead sexy.

I have body issues.
I have acne.
I have a mustache. I have chin hairs, so very unladylike.
I am overweight.
My smile is crooked and I show far too much gum for my taste.
My feet are flat and my chest is too voluminous.
I have a pancake ass and I don't shave my legs.
I could careless about wearing make-up, but feel the need to hide.

I am as imperfect as you can get, in my own opinions.

I am a worry-wart.
I am anxious.
I have all kinds of emotional problems;
I play the depression drums until I can't even move.
I dance myself through anxiety attacks and moments where I'm too scared.
I dream of days where I don't have to leave my house.
I berate myself for all my mistakes. I over-think. I over-drink and
over I go, over that edge, into something deeper than a sink.
I take all the cruel, off-handed, comments to heart and my wounds are raw.

But I'm an idealist. A word that seems so dirty in today's world.
I believe in the magic of just one kind sentence. One sweet gesture.
I believe in the power of a word, just one.
I believe that I could change the world, because all it takes is one voice.

I would rather be a heart-fixer, a heart-gatherer, a heart-whisperer
than a heart-breaker any day of the week.
Because who are we without our imperfections and our flaws?
Who are we without the things that made us into who we are?

The Boundaries (Trigger Warning)

I have no sexual boundaries. No idea what a healthy sexual relationship entails.
So when you touched me, sliding your hand up my leg, I told myself that I was...
Overreacting
Being stupid
You're my friend
If I didn't want it, why didn't I get out of the car?

My stomach clenched. I felt sick for the rest of the day.
You told me you were just teasing me. You meant nothing by it.
You said we were just friends.
I tried to establish a boundary; this far and no further.

I told you,
"I'm married."
"You're sweet, but you are a little out of my age range."
"Even if I were free, I wouldn't be interested."
But I didn't tell you "No," and I didn't get out of the car.

The worst thing in the world was realizing that my body was reacting,
in ways I never wanted it to,
in ways that make me feel sick to my stomach,
in ways that it shouldn't have.

You said it was an accident when you poked me in the breast.
You called me out on putting my hand in the way of yours.
You asked if I was nervous about being in the car with you.
You said it was all fun and games.
You were the one who said that "No" meant "No."

But I didn't say "No," did I? I tried to say it in ways that wouldn't hurt.
I tried to say it in ways that made it clear.
I tried to avoid hurting YOUR feelings, while you invaded my personal space.

And it was my fault, because I didn't say "No."
You took my silence as consent, when it was really no consent at all.

I have no sexual boundaries, I belittle myself into thinking its all in my head.
Because that's what I've been told my whole life.
My silence is taken for a "Yes" while my heart keeps screaming "No."

The Release of Echo (Part 1)

Echo had been banished, cursed, for a very long time. So many centuries had passed that she had lost count. It was like being mute, but somehow worse. The only words she was able to speak were repeats. She could voice no independent thoughts or opinions. She was unable to speak at all, unless it was to parrot others. No one seemed to want to say anything interesting either. IT was always "hello," sometimes her own name and, more often than not, profanity.

Spiteful Hera. It really wasn't Echo's fault Zeus couldn't remain faithful. Why should she be punished when it was his idea she tell a story? How was she supposed to know what Zeus was really doing? It was supposed to be a lovely story and it was all spoiled by Zeus and Hera.

They had gotten their comeuppance though. All the gods had been forced into sleep by a lack of devotion. They had been beaten out by the latest religions; Christianity, Islam, Judaism. Monotheistic religion was the latest craze, like a poison. It had spread until all the gods were touched.

Echo, however, still had a place in the world, thanks to Hera's spite. Perhaps she should cut her some slack? What kind of existence was this, though? It was miserable like this. No one ever said what she wanted to say. It was lonely. It wasn't as if she could live among the regular people. Eventually they would catch on that she wasn't normal. They'd discover she was old, almost as old as the world.

"Stupid Zeus." she thought. He was handsome, well, had been handsome once. She had flirted with the idea of sleeping with him, once. However, she had played attendant to Hera enough times to have seen her temper unleashed. Look at Hercules, look at her! Maybe she should've seen this coming.

Tucking a narcissus into her hair, she sighed. She had found a small reflecting pool, some piece of Gaia she could call  home. However, the need for companionship, even if it was only to parrot, would drive her away. Her search for dank tunnels and small canyons seemed never-ending.

She didn't quite run to her latest haunting ground, but she didn't walk either. The thought of being discovered terrified her. How many times had she run from the puppets of Pan? How many times had she been almost killed by those who couldn't understand what she was? It was dangerous being a nymph in the modern age. It was dangerous being only an echo.

Lingering in the shadows of a tunnel, Echo marked the passing of Apollo's chariots. The chariots of Artemis were fast approaching and full dark would be soon. She envied the twins. At least they had a purpose, some reason to continue, and without fear. Hera hadn't tried to punish them and they were born of Zeus' infidelity. It made her angry to think of what she had been reduced to. She had been a story teller, a nymph with good standing. Stupid Hera.

Shaking her head, she pushed thought aside. It would only make her cry. There was no point in crying either.

As it grew darker, she heard voices approaching. Surely one of those voices wouldn't be able to pass without shouting. It was perfect, getting dark and abandoned. It would give them an eerie feeling and a rush. Then they would scurry off into the night, leaving her to the night animals.

"Hello!" called a timid voice. The sound reverberated in her chest before responding.

"Hello!" she repeated, timidly.

"Hello!" the voice called again, bolder now.

"Hello!" she echoed.

"Come on, let's go. Who wants to hear an echo?" said another voice.

"Hear an echo?" she repeated, already bored with these voices.

"Its fun." replied the first voice, sounding slightly annoyed.

"Its fun." she echoed, faintly.

"Whatever." said the second voice, flippantly.

"Whatever." she replied.

There was a silence settling into the tunnel so that she thought the voices had gone. She would wait a few moments longer before rushing back to her reflecting pool, back to her piece of Gaia. She had almost decided to leave when she heard the second voice.

"I want..." said the voice, speaking so softly Echo could barely hear.

"I want..." she whispered back.

"Want to be..." said the voice, growing stronger.

"Want to be..." Echo could feel something bubbling inside her as she repeated the words. She felt like she was having a heart attack. Everything was painfully alive suddenly. It was like hanging off a cliff, waiting for the landing.

"FREE!" screamed the voice, full of anguish and longing.

"Free!" the word ripped from her throat in a scream of triumph. "Free! Free! Free!" she kept repeating until her voice was a whisper.

The second voice, seemingly satisfied, had faded and disappeared in the darkness.

Running as fast as she could, she raced back to her place. Kneeling beside the water, her whole body vibrated like a tuning fork. She was shaking so hard she could barely make out her reflection.

A pressure was building up in her chest; like a fist pushing upward from her stomach. It had slowly gotten worse, becoming more and more crippling.

Without warning, the feelings hit the base of her throat, the intensity making her gag. Something sweet and metallic filled her mouth, crashing like waves into her gritted teeth. She opened her mouth, gagging and clutching her stomach. The pressure continued up her throat, burning one moment and then painfully cold the next.

It was unbearable and tears began filling her eyes. What was happening? She had never experienced anything like this in her long centuries. The only thing that had come close was when Hera had locked her voice away. Even that hadn't been this exquisitely, painfully, terrible. Yet, for all the pain, there was a joy, an ecstasy, building underneath it.

Her jaw ached from the pressure and it cracked painfully as something substantial filled her mouth. It cut off her air way, her fingers clawing at her throat, trying to force whatever it was out of her. Her vision blurred and black spots dotted everything. The pressure was slowly coming to an end; her energy rallying long enough to pull the item all the way out.

Exhausted, she fell over, her fingers gracing the water. With the item fully vacated she gasped for breath. The air had never tasted so sweet. She felt dizzy as she looked at the object she had purged.

It was small, smaller than it had felt in her throat. It was a small, gilded, birdcage with a tiny padlock. It was exquisite looking and she recognized the Greek letters for "Hera" on the lock. Her brain stumbled on Hera's name, trying to find an explanation and trying to tap down the hope building.

That's when she heard it, a voice emanating from the cage. It was melodious, singing and talking. It was a cacophony; all of her different thoughts, songs, stories and dreams going at once. Everything she had longed to say was spilling out of the cage.

The lock came undone and the door opened up, her voice flowing out. It was beautiful, standing three inches tall, golden and sparkling.

"Its time to speak, Echo." it said, before plunging into her throat and spreading out like honey. Her throat ached for only a moment before she fainted.

The sunlight dappled the ground around Echo. A leaf drifted down and landed on her face. When she opened her eyes, Apollo's chariot rested at its Zenith. She moved stiffly, wondering if everything had been a dream. She was afraid it was and couldn't bring herself to try her voice.

Maybe she would try tonight. If it had been a dream, she wouldn't be able to resist repeating. She would be compelled to echo, it was the most vicious part of the curse.

Crying to the Phone.

Visiting with my sister is always super bitter-sweet. Like, I don't know, like the memories are about to jump out of my chest, break all my ribs. Its, its like dying. Almost.

Its like, I know there's a sweetness to it, there's a wonder to being with her. But, there's this lingering guilt and this lingering sickness to it. This... I don't even know how to explain it. Its just like, its kinda like dying. I don't, I don't know how to explain it other than that.

And its like, you know, I'm at her grandmother's and I think "wow, you were my grandmother too, once." Once upon a time, in this land called a fairy tale, because, you know, we were... we were something. What were we?

I was this step-grandchild and that was it? Is that all I was? Was I just a little girl that sometimes came over and learned how to knit? Was, was I anything? Was I anything? Anything, besides non-existent?

And it would be almost pleasant if I didn't feel like there was this knife being jammed in-between my ribs, like a bullet going through my chest and tearing everything into itty-bitty pieces because I can't believe a goddamn word she says, because she's a liar. And, and, you know, we sit there and we play make believe and we say "oh, we can trade books" and "oh, I'll bring you pictures" and "oh, I'd really like to have some of your pictures." But that's not true. Its not true at all.

Its, its as if I don't exist when I'm not there. Its only when I'm there that I matter. It, you know, I... She had my number, she could've called me. She could've gotten a hold of me, she knew where I was when I was in my car accident. They all knew where I was. They all knew. I was at that freaking hotel, in freaking _______, she lives ten minutes from there!

I didn't hear from her once. I didn't, I didn't hear from her, I didn't see her. She didn't come to visit me. I mean, I guess it speaks well of ___ that he came to the hospital when I was in surgery. But I wouldn't have wanted to see him. Wouldn't have wanted to see him at all.

And its so... fucking pitiful, being twenty-four years old and having to play make believe with an old woman, pretending that we had something when we clearly don't. Its, its one of the worst feelings in the world because I want to have some sort of relationship with her. Because I want to be able to go to my grandmother's house and spend the night. And tell her all about the stories I'm writing and tell her all about everything.

I didn't have that kind of relationship with my real grandmother. I didn't get to have that kind of relationship with Memere because she died and she lived in California. But this was a woman I had access to, this was a woman I lived, like, a hop, skip and a jump from. Literally just walk through the field and there she was. And, and I don't think she ever knew me at all. And I never knew her. And I just, I feel so stupid for wanting this relationship when it will cause me nothing but misery because I know I can't trust anything she says!

And it feels like I'm betraying my mother because, you know, she hated my mother. She still hates my mother, but you can almost pretend that she doesn't hate my mother because she doesn't have to deal with her on a regular basis. She doesn't, doesn't have to say "this is my daughter-in-law." She doesn't have to acknowledge my mother at all.

This is... its just so fucking ridiculous. Having to play make believe and the memories are building up in my chest so that they're going to break my ribs when they come crashing out. And I just... I want to have a normal family. I want to have, I want to have grandparents, I want to have a father. I... I want to have a good relationship with my sister. And I can't because, every time I see her, the memories start and I have to see her father and I feel like I'm going to be sick and then I have the nightmares because everything he ever did to us comes rushing back.

The lies, the torture, everything. Everything comes back, every cruel word. Every moment where he could've made a difference and he didn't. Where he could've made a good difference and he didn't. And I'm, I'm just some little girl to be played with, apparently. 'Cause, you know, I don't, apparently, don't deserve the truth. Apparently. And that's what hurts, one of the, one of the biggest knives dug in, is not that they lied to me, but that I didn't deserve the truth. That I didn't deserve to be loved, for whatever reason.

Even though I tried, really hard, to be everything they wanted me to be. When I tried really hard to be the perfect Sarah, whoever the fuck Sarah is. Nobody fucking knows! I don't even know. I don't know who Sarah is. Sarah doesn't exist. Sarah doesn't exist. I don't know who I am. But who I was, was apparently never good enough. So what the fuck does it matter?

It doesn't. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter, none of it matters. Why the fuck am I even recording this? Who the fuck am I going to send it to? Nobody. Its just going to sit here, on this phone, as a reminder. As a reminder of memories and pain and crying while I'm driving home from dropping my sister off at her grandmother's.

That's what this is going to be. That's all its going to be. So what the fuck does it matter?

Maybe there are words

Maybe there are words, somewhere,
that can explain this bubbling,
overflowing, always rolling ball of
emotions.

Kiss me; like we're stuck in traffic.
Like the stars are watching,
jealous and anticipating.

Take your time with me.
Stop and go,
drive me to the edge of this, insanity,
we call LOVE.

Let me dangle from your heart strings,
long enough to realize yours
are the only arms I want to catch me.

Let me go.
Let me fall into your abyss,
looking long, like Nietzsche,
And yours are the only wishes I could fulfill.

I want to be sacrificed on the altar of your bed,
laid open by this intensity we call sexuality,
reality,
love and inside out clarity.

I want to be inside out,
exposed like bleeding hearts and
cardiac attacks against broken ribs.

Kiss me like mine are the last lips,
speaking bad poetry.
Beatrice and Benedict,
arguing and mouths stopped with kisses.

I want you to WANT me.

Go slow so that I am begging for more,
ravenous and anxious,
going out of my mind,
but finding myself in your mirrors.

And maybe I want you to stop me,
stop my verbal flailing,
my constant navigating through rhymes and reasons,
with a kiss that will stand my hair on end
and melt me down to my basic components.

Kiss me slowly,
as if God were looking the other way
and we don't need him anyway.

Ravage me,
let my desires drip from your tongue,
like honey is the only cum
and we aren't two people having sex,
but we're the last two cellists
baring our skin to play music with our souls
and the notes are tattooed on our fingers
and our lips.

And yours is the only bow to caress my strings,
the only flute to my voice.
The only breath in my lungs,
building up to an explosion.

You're the explosion about to collapse my lungs
with pleading for mercy and begging for more.
You're the scissors about to cut my life short
with verbs and forbidden nouns,
kisses that wrack my body
and leave me a whisper in your heart.

Kiss me to life.
Simply and with nothing to hide.
And I will blossom in the garden of your arms.