don't think about the way he held you when he saw you cry for the first time. don't think about his smile when you turned around and caught him looking at you. don't remember the sound of his voice whispering your name to see if you were still awake at 2:48 in the morning. don't recall how perfect and warm his hands felt on your body and how gentle he was with you.

don't.

remember him shooting down your ideas and making a mockery of your opinion. remember how he called you pathetic in front of his friends and laughed as you tried to shake it off. think about how he told you that he was glad that you two could joke about anything with each other, after he called you a *****. realize the distance he created in the final weeks in the countdown to snipping the thread that delicately bound your heart to his.

remember him telling you that he never loved you. remember him treating you like a child, remember him calling you beautiful only when you laid on your back on his rough flannel blanket, staring at the ceiling until he decided he was satisfied.

remember waiting for him to text you and call you and talk to you, remember him ignoring you and making you feel worthless.

don't remember how his eyes sparkled when the sunlight hit them in the right spot. don't remember him pulling you close for a kiss.

(i was only in love with the idea of you)

Touch me,
it doesn't matter where
and it doesnt matter how
I need to know I'm still alive
so someone touch me now
Shake my hand and say hello
or pat me on the back
kiss me on the cheek
that I may feel this sense I lack
slap my face and pull my hair
make me bleed I just don't care
dig your nails into my skin
so I can feed this need within
I've been numb for such a time
that even pain would be sublime
so touch me, touch me now
I don't care where, I don't care how

I like you.
Or at least I like who I am when I'm with you.
When I look into your eyes,
I'm on a different planet.
I've always liked you...
Even before everyone else did.
I still do...
And I don't know if its worse if you know,
Or worse if you don't.

if girls are so good at painting their faces
i wish we could turn them loose on a real canvas
see what they really mean
when they paint those black lines
every girl is a painter
she needs a real canvas
da vinci is lurking behind those sultry lashes
trapped in the eyeliner-barbed wire
a concentration camp of cover-up
clipping their own wings
willingly
with eyelash curlers -
every girl is a painter.
i wonder what faces they would paint
if they stopped focusing on their own face
i wonder if they would still have clown-smiles
and slanted eyes

i am looking for the next van gogh
but he has camouflaged himself
and is dying in front of an empty mirror.