In one summer, I've become an alcoholic. I've become a reckless shadow of myself.
In one summer I caused the love of my life to distrust me. I showed him my weaknesses and he refused to forgive.
In one summer, I've proven to myself that I'm not strong enough to live. The once terrifying vision of a starile hospital ward seems welcoming now.
In one summer I've managed to convince myself I have nothing left.

I wake to see a hollow face at my left side
And I wonder if I've made another
Mistake when there are no
To be made. Maybe if I lift the truth, no.
I am faithful.
Suddenly the thought of  psyche
And the binding of public views
Overcomes the fear of there being no
Light left in the world
And suddenly the sun fell
Like the tears of a widow
After the sky said goodbye like
The waving of a handkerchief
As a husband goes to war
And when the sun said goodbye
And left everyone's skin to turn
Translucent and white,
Dooming the population to turn
To ash at the blink of a
Flashlight, the sky agreed with the sun
Left nothingness lying
In its place like a lover
After a night of ***** and regrets.
And as regrets leads to guilt, the
Mourning time resolves nothing.
Guilt leads to loneliness, and cats swell like a tsunami.
Loneliness leads to insanity,
Insanity leads. The march of war on foreign concrete.
Insanity leads you. Into the eye of the storm
As the water drains from the steel sink.
Insanity controls you.
Insanity is in you.

Even though I said goodnight,
I am still awake, crying myself to sleep.
And I hoped that you would've at least tried to ask what is wrong.

I may not want to talk, but I need you there, still.

Something bad is going to happen.
The only thing on my mind (because I cant help it):
Remember your promise.

Welded together, we are by now. Or am I imagining?
The only key that fits my locked doors, my haunted mansion.
Exorcise these demons, love. Purify me.
Tree branches scape my windows and my floorboards groan.
Growing younger with age; you own the sands of time;
The exact crushed stone that took my life away in the first place.

I've written an epic for you, a story of things that we could see together.
Turned out lights and glimmering stars on our chandelier.
Diamonds glowing in your eyes and a fire burning in mine.
Step back and fall into nothing, but somehow something.
Birds are singing for us, love. Wherever their nests lie, we shall too,
Collapse into a thunder storm and drown out their song with our own.

Strong and fast- moving; we are no longer human.
We are a current, swift and caressing the life we have lead.
We wash ashore with the push and pull of your tides, steam
Licking us as my fire burns. The sweet moss fill our lungs
As we crush it beneath us. The soft bed of green
Replacing the squeaks that we have heard many times before.

And I say your name. Whisper and moan. Almost.

When I started writing, It was because I was in pain.
I tried to be happier with my words but to no avail.
The few poems I had spat out about love or *** were forced,
Driven by guilt because I knew that I was not in a safe place.
I knew I had to save myself.

And then I broke free.

This dry spell I've been in is caused by a lack of pain,
By a better place that I didn't think existed.
The future became clearer and my present became brighter.
I could recognize the faces in my dreams
And I lost the edgy, creative side of my mind.

I learned what a lovely kiss felt like, metaphorically.

I'd been kissed. I'd been hit. I'd been in bed with man and woman.
I'd been in love. I thought I'd been in love.
I'd never been kissed by another soul. Another body, yes.
But your kiss went deep. I felt it in my veins.
I felt it in the split ends of my hair. I felt it in the stars above my head.

I'd been touched by an angel. I swear I was.

Gradually, I've been brought into the world
As a new soul without torment. The shadows remain,
But the lights in my attic rarely turn off.
I can see the pages that I'd stashed away with poems and stories
Scrawled across the parchment. I wrote because I was in pain.

I don't write because of you.

This sense tells me there was a mistake, something
Someone found. Maybe I didn't want to be found.

Our analysis of the human race
Will forever burn itself into our minds.
The controversy.
The world itself and its ****** up society
Like a cold, smooth granite countertop with
Grey/ green mold and sharp stench from
Spilled milk. The rustles of a silent wind
Knock, KNock, KNOCKing on the windows at night,
The fear.

Is it something about religion, the fear?
My God is right while yours is wrong,
None of us steal, but a few of yours murdered, so
You all must be killers.
Do you cast spells, have you cursed me?
Ive had this stabbing pain in my side, do you do voodoo?
What if I knock, knock, knock on your door and
Shove it in your face because I am right and you are wrong,
Is this controversial enough for you?

Is it something about teeenagers, the fear?
Their whininess?
"They know nothing of the real world,
The hardships.."
*******.
"They're looking for attention, they are manipulative thieves,
Taking money from their parents,
Why can't they get a job?"
Because its *******!
There are no jobs,
School is based on answers, not trying,
Whining? Because we accept that the world will
Carve out our stomachs with spoons
And blame us for the red graffiti on the side of the train?
What about the adults and even some of our own that tell us to
Hole up and die because of the music we like
Because of our mental disorders,
“They cut for attention. Why dont you
Carve a little deeper and paint a pretty picture?
Feel the sting like being *******, motionless, next to a hornets nest.”
Is it controversial enough for you?

Could it be something about ***, the fear?
The clubs, the ****** and prostitutes,
The millions of dollars going toward their single parenthood every year?
The reality shows depicting teen pregnancy
Yet shunning *******?
It’s exhilarating, but it is a sin,
It is an instinct, but I am going to hell?
A boy tells his friend he got laid and he is the
Most popular kid in school, He receives a metaphorical blue ribbon.
His fifteen minutes of fame.
A girl tells her closest friend that she lost her
Virginity and she is known as the school ***** for the
Rest of the year, and maybe even onward.
Age thirteen after the first *** ed class,
"Momma, how does ******* work?
Do lesbians use ******?
Why is lesbian **** okay, but the other kinds are disgusting?"
Is that controversial enough for you?

Is it something about politics, the fear?
The money we do not have funding ****** in a war,
We have no place in.
Stronger guns with less of a kick.
The continuous binding of church and state,
Despite the promise from two and a half hundred years ago
That it would not happen,
Why can we not marry the people we love
Or cure ourselves of deadly disease without spending
What we do not have?
Is it controversial enough for you?

A final tear falls like
My soul escaping from my eyes.

The windows are closed.

A draft can still be felt from the edge of a mental bridge,
And I jumped.
My excuse: I go where the wind takes me.

---------
I've let you know what's its like,
Yet it seems like you don't want it to be true.
You lie to yourself.
Or maybe you just don't comprehend.

Running from the truth will get you nowhere.
---------

A final tear falls like
A memory finally understood.

I can not deal with this much longer.
They are trying to help, but it's worse, I am isolated, I am scared.
My worst fear is coming to life.
If I go, it is going to get worse. I promise that. It will get worse.
I have tried to heal, and every time I try, they notice, and they
Make everything worse. It is worse, I will repeat it because it is true.
Just stop. Please.
I can not deal with this much longer.

Lucifer...

Hah! Someone needs to go back to their first grade spelling class.
The King of Hell, Fallen Angel, Lord of Demons.
His name is more complex.

His name is Life.

He robs you of all happiness, feeds on your dreams
And ***** them out in a plastic, portable bathroom.
Disgusting things.

The King of Hell is one with us.
Walks, stalks, hides in our shadows, following and affecting every move.
In every. Waking. Moment.
And watches us in our sleep.

His name is Life.
And we are alive... Aren't we?

Lets be gentle,
slow,
loving.
Lets savor the
moment
and lose ourselves
in the way we taste
together.
Lets whisper
against our lips
as though we've
never heard
each other's voice.
Lets kiss in a way
that will bind us,
tangle us inside
a storybook.

I am the rat that escaped from all of these
Bottled diseases. The flash eating organisms that have wasted the others.
But I was unable to escape the memories, the scars,
And the aftermath. I still have the sickness; the antibiotic did not complete
It's process of healing. The caress of chemicals
Inside of my bloodstream did not satisfy the lust for life I had always suffered through.

Never have I seen a light other than the fluorescents hanging above the steel table
As they dissected my friends. They only ones I have ever seen alive.
The factory settings of their decomposition have been restarted and they erode as if
Made of dust. They basically are at this point.

The rustling of papers sickens me, recording everything the scientists see; they study us
Under a microscope. They smell of rust and sawdust, old and crippled. Cruel.
They keep us in glass boxes and torture us with everything we fear.

So many things containing those words.
And all of them are true.
I hope that you will be my last true love, because you are also my first.
I hope you will be the first to love me intimately, and also be the last.

I wish that you could be the last thing I see before I drift into our dreamland,
And the first sight when I awake.

The first to tell your secrets, and the last to let go of.

The last to leave, the first to see, truly.

I laid in my bed, staring out my broken screen window,
And I thought of you.
The stars in the sky remind me of your mind,
An endless galaxy of thought and memory.
I dreamed with open eyes that you laid next to me,
Whispering small things in my ear
And gently tracing the scars on my arm.
The small blisters covering my skin
Throbbing and sensitive under your calloused fingers.
We could talk about the little things that make life great,
Or you could kiss me senseless.

These hopes and thoughts repeat every night.
The imagery and technicolor thoughts leave shivers
Running through my entire body. I know you dream of this, too.

I laid in my bed, staring out my broken screen window,
And I thought of you.
The stars in the sky remind me of your mind,
An endless galaxy of thought and memory.
I dreamed with open eyes that you laid next to me,
Whispering small things in my ear
And gently tracing the scars on my arm.
The small blisters covering my skin
Throbbing and sensitive under your calloused fingers.
We could talk about the little things that make life great,
Or you could kiss me senseless.

These hopes and thoughts repeat every night.
The imagery and technicolor thoughts leave shivers
Running through my entire body. I know you dream of this, too.

-Year fifteen.

Normal girl, tall and slender. Bright eyes and developing body.
But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by something else. Beautiful bones,
Long, pink nails and the skin on her palm smoother than silk.
The veins show a dull peppermint on her snowy skin.
Her thin wrist and delicate movements.

She cracks her knuckles so her sharp joints will show more.

-Year twenty three.

The life she lived previous was pressured by the pollution in the air. ****,
Drugs, and alcohol. She slouches and shivers on a warm summer day,
Huddled in a corner of her house.

Her hands show no more snow. The veins seem shriveled.
Her joints were swollen and unmovable.
Her palms are coarse from rubbing them together and her nails...
Oh, her nails were ****** and torn off. She clawed too much at her neck
As she was held down and suffocated.

-Year twenty four.

*"I am sorry." The note read.

It was a deformed hand. Bite marks on her fingertips, shriveled skin with blotches and sores.
The veins drawn over in pink scars from jagged blades and old attempts.
It was a miracle she could write at all.

She now lays in an open casket. Eyes stare at her contrasted beauty.
Her childhood friend had always loved her hands. He reconstructed them.
A shriveled old body, only twenty four years old, but seemingly ancient.

But her hands, oh... Her hands were sculpted by someone who truly loved her.
Beautiful bones,
Long and pink plastic nails. The skin on her palm made of silk.
The veins are drawn with a dull peppermint pastel on her falsely snowy skin.

He cracked her fingers so her prosthetic joints will move less.

Feather pen, traditional; it is a lovely piece. Jar of ink,
Spilled a drop in a cracked floorboard. It spreads fast, covers the room. Isolated,
Blackened and insane. Thirty four minutes pass, not a sound.
Mind is failing: who am I? Forget your own name, voices are whispering.
Did you know lovers can find each others lips in the complete dark?
Minds reach, feel me. No. This is not dark.

This is endless, too much and too little to look for.
Skill does not matter here.
I fell down the rabbit hole, but my name is not Alice. My name
Is Death. I am a shinigami, you see. And my purpose is to cause pain and worry.
People cry for me. This dark room is where my film developes.
Picture the void that souls fall into, tortures children stabbing, cutting out their own hearts.
Write about it, children. Carve it into your skin and I will take you away.

I am her for you in your darkest hour. And I am always watching.

Never spill your blood red ink again.

Maybe the wind is telling stories.
I don't know the language, yet
I know what to find.

A treasure that needs to be uncovered
Or a lost city in the clouds.
Somewhere the strife of life will not reach me.
Or maybe a handwritten story,
Telling of how the world turned cold and ignorant,
Singed at the edges by fire before the wind took it away.

Everything changes when love turns evil, doesn't it?
The eyes change and a perverted hate takes their place.
Ink may be a cure, but lies are a bandaid.

Pain comes if its uncovered, so why fix it?
Just run from it, if you cut it's head off, two will grow back, anyway.

And suddenly I was weightless,
Barely a cloud
Near the ground, obstructing the
Paths that my eyes wander down.
Simply a stream of consciousness,
Fear,
Anguish,
Demonstrated by demons
And the flames flavoured
Like chocolate and ghost peppers.
Burning blisters on the insides of
My teeth, spreading through my bones
As a parasite would slither
Down my throat.
And I wanted to be purified.

You held me. That is it.
You held me in a way that assured me you would love me forever.
Gentle, strong. Slowly tracing the edges of my body.
A look in your eyes told me you admired them. Saw a beauty in them other than
What I saw,
Or what others saw. Just an object.
But the look in those everchanging eyes of yours told me you saw a grace that I never
Knew I had.

And then you raised your lips to mine and the entire world fell away.
Nothing but the feeling of your lips dancing with mine. Tongues twirling and dipping,
Slowly, but with a confidence that we have rehearsed two thousand times before.
But that would be the first time. The first time that a tenderness such as that has showed itself to me.
We are strong, we experienced different things than the others. We are different than them.

We know.

Send me a fire starter and foundation to cover the crispy skin of my forearm.

I am sorry, I couldn't help it, I was so cold and desperate for heat.
The firemen were too late. The steel walls surrounding me melted from
The heat and my every regret was spilled in front of me.
Underground tunnels make my black ink flow like the Nile,
Washing my pages with black and erasing my written labyrinth.

Send a raft so that I may not drown in my own madness. A signed envelope
With a perfect message.

Sleep when you write, you can dream that way, an exaggerated reality
That murders your sense, drags you into a dusty cupboard and gouges out your eyes and ears.
Three weeks later, a box shows up at your door.
You reach inside and feel everything, smell the rotting flesh. You can not hear or see anything
Because your parts used for perception are in your hand.

Happy Birthday!
From, your worst nightmare.

The power of the word,
Or maybe the power we give it.

A forever-long walk along the beach,
Watching as the sun rises into the windows
Of a small house on the edge.
One push of the wind and it will plummet;
An endless distance lays below.

I still cry over you.
I still mourn the love we had.
As pure as it was.
I never thought we'd be here.
Though another love has graced me,
I miss your unique touch
And the way you appreciated me.
Mistakes make us.
And break us.
I don't blame you.
I never did.

I can't listen to Van Halen
Or watch more of the shows we binged
Or even eat popcorn
Without thinking of you and everything we had.
Nostalgia plagues me
And keeps me feeling
Even though I shouldn't.

A picture on the internet told me
That I should write every day
Because it would make me stronger.
It said to write even when I couldn't
But if I couldn't then how could I?
That’s the problem.

If I don’t write every day then I become weaker.
The weaker I become, the less I write.
How can I write to get stronger when
I am already too weak to write?

Its like throwing a bird without wings and expecting it to fly.
Each time it hits the ground it is closer to dying
But it can save itself if it can just fly.
But that's the problem!

The bird becomes more jaded every day it doesn't fly
And the more jaded he is, the less he wants to.
How could he possibly save himself
If he is already dying?

Its like slamming a door in a decaying home.
The hinges creak and the wood splinters,
It comes closer to falling apart with every motion
But the people who use it only use it for their own privacy.
That’s the problem.

That door creaks and splinters every time it is closed.
Keep closing it and there will be no more door,
Just an empty space in a wall,
Another hallway.
There is only one decaying home and only a certain number of doors,
Pretty soon they will all fall apart in your hands.
It sounds like a metaphor.

Quiet. Sickeningly quiet.
Watching silhouettes pass outside
While the salt dries to the floor at my feet.

Why am I here, waiting?

I am stuck in a maze.

Full of mirrors
And I can see people who look just like me.

They are me.
Aren't me.
Are me aren't me;
I don't know anymore.

I am Kaydee.
I am Kestrel.
I am Kagami.
I have many names.

And all of them are stuck in this maze with me.

You kissed the tears from my cheeks
Your own falling in time with mine;
Our hearts pulling, heavy and weeping.

I told you my story.
The storm and the eye in the center.

Not
Alone
Here

Everyone has something to complain about. Everyone has a reason to flip out or cry. Everyone needs a shoulder once in a while. Some people hide. I want to be the one people go to, it is my way of saying "please", "thank you", or "sorry" to those who have hurt me (I want so badly to rip your head off, so i will **** you with kindness and give you a place to whine and cry), have done something for me, or those who I have hurt in some form or another.

I tell myself that it will be okay.
It will get easier, happier.
The monsters eating me from the insides
Will shop choping on my bones and blood
Will fill the empty spaces.

That blood will not spill out, though.
No. I promised not to. One week at a time.
But it will spil into, fill the gaps
In my mind and body where happens and flash should be.
It will get better.

Things will be fixed and the shivers in my head
Will no longer cause a blank stare on my face.
I will smile for real and love freely.
I will be happy and free, live with no struggle to live.
I will teach and learn from those who
Succeed me in my illnesses.

No one can stop me.

I feel the anxiety creeping up my arms. My hands are shaking, and I feel fragile, broken, hollow. There are pieces inside rattling like a piggy bank with only a few pennies. I an shivering I am cold.

I just froze.

I couldn't move and I don't know why and I am freezing. The voice at the front of the room makes sense but it doesn't. I get it but only on paper. I am numb. I feel sick. I feel


Gone.

Take me away from here.
Away from the dozens of
Mockingbirds constantly speaking.
There is no time to fix them,
Teach them to sing.
I can not deal with the auto tune
Much longer.

I have nothing to give, nothing to say.
My words are frail. My thoughts are stray.

I wonder what will happen to me
When all is said and done.
Though if anything does happen,
It will all go wrong.

I hate to rhyme, but this is how I feel,
Just empty enough to wonder what is real.

I have nothing to give, nothing to say.
But somehow, the lingering words can make me sway.

All day I could
Feel

My heart breaking,
shattered and
torn away

Every ******* time I looked at you.

Now I know why.

Don't mention it....
Don't, or I swear I'll...

You mentioned it. The
Elephant
In the room.
We didn't want to mention it!
Don't talk about it! You'll
Chase it away.

We need it here, don't hurt it's feelings!

We need something to
Do.
Something to
Talk about.

Don't fix it.

We crave the drama.

When the spit leaves his mouth like acid,
Speckles my face with scars and tears,
Insults are last place in my minds marathon.

The self depreciation is a serrated knife,
Plucking at the strings in my chest.
And with each snap, I am closer to collapsing.

"Sketch
-------
In every drawing, every sketch, every line made with a pencil.
There are pictures hidden.
An emotion left behind.
An imprint.

Every **** at my screen forms a letter, making up the words you are reading now.
And every tap of my fingernail is some sort of song I have in my head.

Everything has a meaning. Even if you don't know it.
A math equation: 17t =.5+14(t+.25)
17 means something to someone. An anniversary.
.25: A quarter. Maybe dinner for a homeless man.

Everything has meaning.

I drew a tree on my page. And that symbolizes the ways I've grown.
Ways I've changed, matured.
And also the beauty and grace of just simply
Standing tall.

Every seam on my dress was designed by someone.
I am wearing an idea.
And that idea could've been someone's pride and joy.
The career they dreamed of and finally achieved.

You never know.

Every stroke of chalk, oil, paint, is an emotion.
I would stab a canvas with a pencil lead thin brush
And it would make a star.
So simple, so beautiful, but what if my head, my heart, my body, was trembling with anger.
Or fear.
Or sadness.
A white rose is beautiful, you'd give it to your lover.
But did you know it symbolizes death?
It's peaceful nature and delicate scent, it's bright light, it's bright color.

It makes me cry every time.
Because somehow, when whoever created that symbol or came up with the idea,
They wanted to die. And they most likely did.
So then, why do people wear black at funerals?

The color is the opposite of death. If you count the white rose.
It symbolizes rebirth.

Living in the hearts of those who actually showed up to mourn you.
While others might have skipped because its just too sad or,
Maybe, they're happy. And they wore yellow that day instead.

Read between the lines. Between the creases.
Between the fingers of someone I used to know,
There were scars.

Who looked at the side of someone's finger?
No one. They were hidden.

She was hurt, but she wore pink.
And her scars were pink as well.
New, like a baby's skin. And what if it was? If it was a baby's skin,
Her way of rebirthing herself into the world and find her new soul,
Her new knowledge?

Read between the lines.
Because she had them in her toes, too."

I want to write something for you, love,
But I am afraid that not even the sky
Or the deepest waters of the ocean
Can compare to your eyes.

I wanted to sing something for you, love,
But, again, I fear that no lyrics are pure
Enough to describe you.
No words are beautiful enough to pleasure
Your ears as your voice pleasures mine.

I wanted to touch you in some way, love.
A way that would create sounds from your
Chest as it rises and falls, a way that
Could let ecstasy fly throughout your body.

I wanted to be better for you, my dearest,
For you are the epitome of perfection
And imperfections that are, by definition, beauty.

I realized not long ago that you, a man with a sweet mind,
Thought of me as beautiful enough and created the image,
In both of our minds, that we are perfect,
And will forever be *one.

I'd see the smiles of betrayal
And greed in the most innocent faces.
Voices of cruelty and abuse
Echoing like music in a ballroom.
I stand in the center, surrounded by
Shadows and screams.

It's possible I could run,
But the ice of your heart
Beneath my heels keeps me
Frozen in my sorrowful doubt.

It seems as my time has passed.
Giving me a numb feeling unless you are near.
I can barely speak, barely think without crying
Or saying something I will regret.
The weather gives me chills.
The sky seems less colorful.
But you, my love,
You make everything bright.
The colors I see in you, dear, are vibrant.
The veins your life runs through are beautiful.
And I feel more alive under your touch than I did
In the summer wind, diving into a lake.
You are always summer, dear.
For me, you are. But am I summer for you?
Do I give you the life you need?
It is never out of season for me, love.
Join me.

The light, the fire, is beautiful,
But it is painful. More painful the day after, when
Skin mends and tried to heal, but you keep going.
Touching, burning.

I never wanted to be in pain.
I never wanted to feel the sting of the flame
Or the numbness of a scratch mark.
Or the pinch of the blade.yet it is so seductive. Addicting.
I am addicted to pain. It gets me going,
Releases every demon I have into the world.

And then I miss them, conjure them back into me.
And I repeat the process.

It's funny, those mirror images. Small bracelets of macaroni-turned jewels,
Costly and pointless. Plastic race cars that mom and dad bought me
Zooming around and breaking vases that once
Held cigarette ash. Flowers wrote an essay on lung cancer,
A peer who, on a high night, was put into the vase.
Flora lungs are surreal.
Imagine a flower the shape of me: my blue hair and eyes the petals and bud,
My body a stem and lungs are the leaves,
Ripped out of my sternum and strewn into the antigravity that surrounds me.
A mirror image in another world,
But somehow not the same. Like nuns and ****** both
Screaming to God as their **** are groped and abused.
Collisions with the coffee table tip the coughing flower and let sailors tug on the ropes,
Sailing on the sea of liquid ash and sing "yo-no yo-**" all the way to the white carpet.
A memorial. To the woman who was saved hereby flashing lights and muffled sirens,
The drugs were too heavy.

And then we sit playing scrabble and watching the news. Oh that poor girl.
It doesn't matter though. It is far enough away to only think of palindromes to click in the
Plastic squares, a perfect fit for a triple word score.
But the score doesn't matter. It is what the word represents.
Reviver: one who brings back.
A necromancer? The zombified critters under the stairs because you felt bad about killing them.
They ate your food, but you conducted a mass ****** with that sweet poison that crystallizes
Their blood. Their parallel selves are still alive aren't they? The realms are separated by a thread,
Nothing more, so why must they be dead?

Why must they be characters in a movie? Everything is a lie, even the
Letters laid on the game board.
The words we speak is a made up language, the god most believe in
Is a figment of imagination. And so is mine. They are just creatures
Written in a book by drunken sailors, man himself,
Or warped versions of a goddess created by hags, high of of the leaves
Vining in their flowerbeds. Clouds came down because of the warm brandy and
Smoke from their pipes, polluted and *****.
Fog does not belong here, this Christmas, but at least it will mask the brick wall that
Everyone seems to crash into.
It is a theory of course; people with glass skulls and hollow brains won't live through it,
But it is worth a shot. No one knows whether you will be crushed, or the wall.
On the other side, the other half of the world, the mirrored side,
Exactly the same as the one behind. Nothing new, but everything to see. You haven't looked until
You've seen the opposite of yourself.

I can not fit inside of a snow globe, not when I do not have
My magic cakes. My name is not Alice, either.

Maybe we can all forget, start over?
Maybe we can go back?
Maybe we can run, be who we want?
I have no clue.

But you still say it.
Perhaps.
Perhaps the wounds we bear can never heal.
Perhaps all we can do is hold eachother as we die off.


Perhaps you still entice me, make me see you as the most beautiful creature ever.
But there's a problem, men aren't beautiful. I am not talking about that.
Every pore, every curve, every color and vein your skin contains fascinates me.
Perhaps our writing has died together.
Or perhaps you are lying to yourself, and perhaps you will come back.
Because you can not void this part of you.
Poetry is magic, music, and, every syllable, a part of you now.

Tell me?

I am not a worthless *****.
Stop treating me like one.

I am not an unsuccessful, lazy person.
Stop treating me like one.

I am not a snotty *****.
Stop treating me like one.

I am not a stupid know-it-all.
Stop treating me like one.