letter to my future love

how much of me is ever enough.
has my mother dressed me ready for offering,
to carry like the last of hope.

i grow restless in mold, but i would rather deteriorate

green ivy eyes;
mine - i image to quench a riot,
instead they blow with chestnut simmer, and limbs of lovers burn.
roots take to scissors -
each hair strand latches to
the back.
we say our parting goodbyes.

from knives to spin delicate design,
marks on my skin drip with steps, these veins like traveler's guides
and left behind gashes i dangle to show off charms.

to love me,
kiss this hurt.

to you;
what will be left to fasten. i am the smallest of
women. the loudest of minds.
take my adventure loosely by the hand,
not tight enough to break, not a soft chime..
we will build homes from lucidity, the warmth of foundation
i will weave. to wear gentler tones, even when the mood is
on empty, and the clocks' hands crushing sanity

there is no predictability to loving whole.
i barely belong to logic, but a firm heart won't
have to scold. merely whisper love
on trails of my body.
and i will bend enough to
mend it,

for i promised mother i'd be the
bride she can adorn the
kitchen with.