You fell in love with me.

I just hope you jumped.
Not slipped.

When I die, dear Mother
don't give my body away
to science.

I'd rather have it given away to poetry.

I want people to cut me open
and observe
how my bones were riddled with
melancholic verses of joyful pasts.

They have to see
the scarlet of my blood was the hue
I stole from the sunsets of
wishful thoughts.

Dear Mother,
give my body away
to the art of writing:
for they have to look past
everything they have ever learned.

They must know
of how much I loved and I lost,
and how that made the twine of my ribs
a story to tell.

I lied.
I told them to be happy when
I'm most certainly not.
I told them things get better when
I doubt that they ever will.
I told them to always have hope when
I've lost all of mine.
I told them everyone's beautiful when
I feel ugly all the time.
I told them to stay strong when
I'm slowly breaking as days go by.
                                                            S.B.

No one knows me, and I mean that wholeheartedly.

Any clue you think I let slip was thought about carefully.
Any sigh or smile was planned out perfectly.
My curt replies written out pensively.
My attitude delivered deliberately.
My laughs emitted purposely.
Any sign of being intrigued thought about timely.
The bounce in my step choreographed repetitively.
Any cry made Oscar-ly.
Any sign of hopelessness shown thoughtfully.

Whether my skies are gray or blue,
*You only connect the dots I give you.