Maybe you never felt it all
the way I did.
Maybe I imagined the electricity and fire crackling out of my fingertips into your skin.
Maybe those velvet kisses that swept away the earth, moon, and stars
ended soon enough for you.
Maybe you captured the stars in my eyes on that one afternoon
when you asked me to let you see me
and I did, remember?
I lifted my eyes to yours
with all pretense stripped away.
I was less naked when I was born.
Maybe you gathered up everything you needed in me
and tucked it away in some pocket to retrieve later.
I fell so far so fast
every single time your lips found mine,
letting you breathe for me
because I forgot how.
They’ll tell you I’m not the one you love,
tell you I’m not worthy of love or respect,
that you aren’t either,
as they try to drag stars and planets through the mud,
anger consuming them
when I shine straight through the filth
of who they want me to be
to fit into their insignificant opinions
of who they need me to be.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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