i preached of you like they were my last words,
or as if you were my favourite book,
or a movie i watched a million times and swore up and down was good,
to friends who weren't a fan of the same genre.
i preached of my faith in you,
and although these words fell upon deaf ears, i preached still.
because you have been safety.
comfort.
home.
and i picked you apart,
and my mother hears so much about you,
and at this point she has got to be sick of it,
but i continue.
i continue.
i.
i bet.
i bet that i
am just your secret.
and that's okay,
sometimes i just wonder why.

one day, a cup ramen and tap water.
one day, a burnt pizza, because i'm stupid and forgetful.
one day, a single hot pocket, cold in the center and tasteless.
one day, a bag of chips and a 99 cent arizona tea.
one day, a zebra cake.
one day, a 50 cent soda.
one day, nothing.
one day, a passing thought about stealing from the store.
one day, a lingering thought about stealing from the store.
one day, a startling fear that i'll starve to death.
one day, a cup ramen and tap water.

she whispered to me of sacrifice,
of the suffering i must endure for a beauty unmatched,
and although it means nights feeling empty inside,
at least the goddess of a failing practice will love me.

and what on earth is the point of being,
when there's still that creeping, sinking feeling,
a fire in my soul always reduced to embers,
and hopes crushed to dust beneath heels,
of people who preach of their status above mine.

and what on earth is the point of living,
when i am belittled so often in my despairity,
that words of "others have it worse" from people close,
eventually became words of my own,
and i poisoned myself so willingly.

and what on earth is the point of continuing,
when all i see is bleak and dreary,
where in my sadness over trivial, unimportant things,
like spilled coffee or being unproductive,
have me ready to pack up my backpack and leave?

you left the faucet on,
and like a *** on a stove it boiled and boiled
and it overflowed,
and i hope it ******* scalds you
i hope it burns and burns and burns,

he says,
with the passion of stars dying,
in their final breaths explode,
that i am his.

he says,
with the love nobody else felt so deeply for me,
in due time surely i'll marry this man,
that i am his.

and i say,
after all my talk of nothing being guaranteed,
with an absolute that i will never make for anyone else,
that i will stay always.

stars taken down from the heavens spun
spun in the darkened corners of my vision
as i told you
and you looked at me,
sick
sick
sickened
by my repulsivity and utter lack of love
for the girl that I had let waste away
in many a dream.
and still i work to frame a perfection i can doubt to have
in this lifetime and more
because if not perfect,
what left will i have to be?