When a boy tells you that you are the only one and
It feels like the inside of a morgue to kiss him
Do not ignore the taste of dust and formaldehyde

Do you want to catch a movie
he asks in a voice like chocolate milk
Or maybe you'll catch chicken pox instead

You don’t really see the difference anymore
Either way you get these marks along your skin
that burst and glow like tiny fireworks

When a boy who carries a knife in his back pocket
and who has no scars on his fingers
tells you there is something special in you

do not believe him
do not stop and ask why
do not look back

He will not be able to tell you anything besides
how beautiful you are
He will not mention the depth in your mind

He will not sigh at the light casting shadows on the planes of your face
He will not talk about the slight curve of your spine
or the curl of your toes

When a boy who seems like paradise threatens to sweep you off your feet
chain yourself down do not be caught in a whirlwind
you were made for more than *this

I can hear your back crack,
in the dark.
Removing your underwear
with chewed fingernails:
You softly ask
if we can share scar tissue
and if I'll stay
despite every issue.

You try to kick the covers
off of our bed,
and ask if we can share the thoughts
buzzing inside of your head.

When insomnia erases your eyes
and disease steals your brain:
You inhale ways to die,
because you still dream
but it's not the same.

I can hear the static in your skull.
I know why you keep
the kitchen knives dull.
You pull on my fingers
so I don't forget you.
You cry on the pillows
and hope I like romance too.

I kiss your temple
during each thunderstorm.
I read you books in bed,
because your eyes are worn.
I put my ear to your chest
because I want you to see
that the air you breathe
means everything to me.

The medicine's not working
As usual
And the effects are brutal
As my mind makes up the strangest stories
About you, about me,
About anything
That it can grasp,
So paranoid,
I can't relax.

i’ve never had feelings for anyone who could be good for me. i’ve never been interested in someone where a good, healthy relationship could’ve resulted, and maybe that’s why i’m so jaded, because everyone i’ve ever liked has just been a distraction or a house on fire— someone i know i shouldn’t be involved with, but i’ll give myself just a few more days to run around frantically with my hands over my eyes, peaking through the cracks between my fingers, searching for things i know i don’t really need, and then i’ll dash out and run down the driveway and the smog will linger for a little while, and the neighbors will complain, and i’ll sit on the curb with my forehead on my knees, holding nothing but intangible regret. next, i’ll either get over it, or obsessively think about him and the ashes smudged on the inside of my eyelids for longer than my sanity. i’ve never really liked someone and been able to daydream about the real possibility of us turning into something greater; of tire swings and painted mailboxes and overgrown, green lawns. it’s always been pretending and fake hope and melodramatic doom. i think it’s messed up my perception of having feelings for someone, because i can never take it seriously— either i know he’s not right for me, or i know the circumstances prohibit the possibility of us. it makes me never want to give anyone a chance (i can’t even see anyone worth chance-giving) because i know how it ends. i don’t like having this closed off heart so early on; i’m too young to be this bitter.

They were broken children
Their scissored minds ran them
In spirals
Until they sat with crossed legs
And crossed lips
To press themselves flatter
They were cut-strings marionettes
Who danced
In an attempt to wring calories
From their balsa-wood bones
Which refused to give
And who pinned their painted smiles
A little tighter each morning
They were snapped-spines picture books
Who’d been warped too far by society
And had had their pages torn from the crease
So that words hung like razor blades
And spliced from each vertebrae

They took them to the circus
Where they were the **** of every joke
But when the clowns speared them with dripping eyes
And artificial mouths that were stretched over grimaces
Like the dust-jackets from different stories
They stared back glassily
Because how can you be afraid
Of the broken clockwork of your reflection?

I can see strings in my mind
right when I close my eyes I
can see them in a magnificent
spectrum, the spectrum of colors
and light and everything that
ever was and ever will be
in this spectrum of beautiful
strings that play like a violin
across all of time and space.
I can see all things that are
finite and the things that are not.
Can others see this spectrum as well?
Can they feel the way the strings
are picked at and hear the beautiful
music that comes from them?
Do they even understand?
These strings connect everything
and they are not just limited to
time and space; *We are all connected.