Champagne 

Hmn, self control is usually
a virtue of mine, but with
lashes as dark as tonight,
when your touch is ablaze,
I’d rather drift my 
tongue across your fingertips 
part lips for danger or perhaps
taste the salt on your shoulder. 

Words of champagne. 
Sham
Pain.

Shame,
Shame,
Shame.
 

BIATA

The Broken Ones

I coddle them, you know. 
I raise them up to the standards
society said they couldn’t muster. 
I whisper gentle lullabyes to them,
comb my fingers through their hair.

They say you’re supposed to
let them heal their broken wings
take a step back, and set them 
free. 

Don’t get too involved. 

But I love them too much
the broken ones of this world. 
So much so, that my heart nearly 
bursts
at the thought of them loving me 
back. 

BIATA

Attractive

I hate being seen as a conventionally
attractive female because one day I
know I won’t be. 

Come on
don’t pretend it never happens,
you know it’s true. 
A trade in for a new model?
A spouse that doesn’t touch me
anymore?

I’m a woman
My soul never mattered.
I’ll have no worth in
a few years so what’s the
fucking point?

BIATA

Old Souls

What a gift it is when a soul
meets another of its kind. 
You drink the same brandy and
speak the same unspoken rhyme. 

I can look into your eyes and see all
your sepia scenes drift by. 
From ventures across the sea to
hopes and dreams of untold worlds,
distant eras, and hidden lives. 

I want to hear all of your old tales,
all of your burning lies.

I want the answers to all of my
questions and hopefully,
as my heart begins to beat again,
you want to yours, too. 

BIATA 

Ghost

I walked through that plain of uncertainty,
with roses dancing between my thighs
long lashes curling down towards my cheek. 

I could drink every ounce of you like a
glass of merlot. I could pull my fingers
through your hair, tell you how much
I adore you. 

Or I could just write it all down,
keep on walking, thinking, feeling

Guess which one I chose?

BIATA

 

A deliberate step,
a nameless awe,
you drift your fingers
down my spine so well.

As soft as pine needles
this fear of
blooming beneath your
downpour of love.

Yet still you touch me
so sweetly,
I may not have a choice.

– B.