I'm going to throw up I'm going to faint I'm going to hit the floor and let the blood pound pound pound in my head like a ******* drum like the one that our good friend Chris plays.
And I'm going to cry and I'm going to scream and I'm going to tear out my skin and my eyes will burn red like a sunrise like the sunrise we watched that morning when I gave you everything.
I'm going to hit the wall with my fists and yell and yell until my throat is raw and "why did I fall so ******* deep oh my gosh HOW WAS I SO STUPID SO. *******. Stupid."
I can't even type because my hands are shaking and my head is pounding and my chest is heaving and I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up.

"How are you?"
"I'm fine."

"How are you?"
"I feel sick, sick like I'm dying. Dying from all of the things that used to make me happy. Your pictures on my computer are killing me. Your old letters are killing me. Every memory of me and you and everything we used to be, is killing me. But the thing that gets to me the most, the one thing that tops all other reason for tears: The fact that I can't talk to you about it. I can't tell you about how much I miss you or how much  I loved you or about all of the hard times. I can't ask you if you feel the same. I can't ask you if you want to try again. That's killing me, not having my best friend."

[You] were written
Never ₩ could my feelings spawn, >>>mediocrity<<<
{You} were Written
With |time| and ■sincerity■
You were --> written
             With love♡
                        
                        and...    ­        
          
                                     ••••• hesitation☆

I could only find you to be provocative and Inspiring... But never mediocre.

Those sleepless nights,
Those petty fights,
The look in your eyes
When I held you tight.
How our hands fit so well
When they clasped together
I think of your voice,
But I just don't remember.

I think of your face,
I can see it so clear.
I think of the three words
I once held so near.
I remember your scent,
How your touch was so tender.
But the feelings I felt,
I just don't remember.

C. Alexander Blum

A dark night, lit only by snow acting as soft moonlight,
Leaves one feeling the stiff air,
making itself comfortable inside one's bones.

There are no birds here, to delight with their songs.
Nor is there life- the winds pulling it from the leaves which hang so effortlessly on a night in June.

The only sound being of dry, cold air
sweeping through black branches.

With overwhelming tones of emptiness in the air,
It is a wonder that, in a few short months,
the life will be bountiful and the snow
will be missed.

C. Alexander Blum

you are a mirror,
already shattered and left with razor sharp edges,
but made of the same pieces as before
you were dropped.
alcohol and meaningless *** are only a temporary glue
and five months time have worn it thin.
resist your predisposition to push everyone away
before hearing the way her voice shakes,
begging you to stay until tomorrow,
as you drown yourself in self destruction.
let the oceans of her eyes swallow the pills for you,
and her own scarred skin fend against the knives you pull out of your back.
you have rebuilt the broken glass walls of your mind
with your one-night-stand's skin-tight leather pants,
strong enough to defend against the words that slip out of her mouth
but not pictures of her bare skin.
use your hands to make something tangible,
like a hand-written letter to your mother
or a mixtape for the sweet girl you shared a cab with,
instead of giving yourself bruises and four second *******.
but *******,
you never once asked how I was doing.

Three days absent of sleep.
Three days deprived of food.
Three days without direction, function, and moral collection.
Three days spent swallowed whole in the depths of plausible correction.

Oh my sweet, I fear no fate can contain this inevitable fear
buried tightly within my chest.
Concaved isolation,
bitterness consumed the best of me.

72 hours of solitariness.
72 hours of repression.
72 hours of apprehension.
72 hours of loss of consciousness.

Whispers of evergreens
chant to me.
Beige stained sheets become
nothing more than a distant memory.

Three months without you.
Three months desperate for lips,
which once caressed my *******.
Three months stripped of scalloped palms, and
crazed for circles traced across my neck.
Three months craving ocean eyes
softly speaking, “we’ll be alright.”

Warm baths filled to the brim
creamy, and delicate skins
while Chopin’s ballad danced in the twilight.
Forever delude us.
Forever spoil us.

Still 13 weeks without you.
13 weeks craving the vibrations of gentle breath,
humming me to sleep, silently sooth me.
13 weeks without fingertips tangling fine locks,
morphing into screams of our names
13 weeks without sideways smiles,
rich and modest, but assertive with simple grins.
13 weeks lusting after charcoal hair nuzzled in my chest,
Alluring arms wrapped around me.

The burden of our romance weighs my mind.
Yet, let us go make our visit, I say
to yellow smoke that lingers on streets and window-panes.
It’s time for indecisions, maybe a hundred visions with
Intoxication to bury us, exhilaration to uncover us.
There will be time to wonder, “Do I dare?
Do I dare fall back into the abyss of my mind?”
There will be time,
‘till voices wake us.

I thought my body was a vault
That nothing could get into
But lately security's been low
And something slipped in

Sometimes sneaky
Something sly
Something blind to the human eyes

A disease that causes my head to hang
A virus that causes internal pain
A cold that makes me shallow my words
A sickness that lurks inside me
Cutting each breath short
Making each sentence incomplete

Your fingers between mine
Warm breath on my neck
Hair tickling my nose
Your body wrapped around mine
My heart beating with yours
Cold feet against my legs
Hot hands under my shirt
Smooth skin under my fingertips
Your perfume in my throat
Hot breath mixed with mine