Maybe begging you to stay was the reason

it was 5:30 a.m. and you told me I wasn't the one

and all of these poems are ******* and have nothing to do with anything that is going on in my head

but three months ago I tried to **** myself and you wouldn't answer your phone.

when you saw me the next night you told me everyone has bad days.

With beer in hand and stagger to your walk I believed you

Cause you were right,

everyone has bad days, I would never deny anyone of that

even my bad days are better than others

I have never had my stomach pumped,

I have never drank till I have passed out

I have never been in a car accident

but I have tasted the cold bitter remnants of what love was supposed to be after swallowing one too many pills

I have opened my skin in the attempt rid my blood of you

I have stained sheet after sheet with what I thought beautiful was,

still all I can hear is you preaching that it's just another bad day

No one ever taught you how to grow up
the simplest things like which fork to use when you are dining with her parents for the first time
or how to change the fire alarms

So when you sit down for dinner you use the desert fork for the salad and wonder why you got yourself into this mess in the first place

and when your house goes up in flames you scream to the sky, you burn down with it.

Every woman I have ever spoken to of love describes it as a masterpiece,

a finished project,

something that if you work hard enough you can achieve alone.

I never understood this, doesn’t it take two?



When I was young the bed time tales my mother would read described the women as soft, something to be

touched gently

The men, always so brave, fighting against dragons and demons, but could touch porcelain skin without leaving a mark

I never understood this, doesn’t love leave a bruise?



When my mother fell in love with another man

she said he touched her like she was stamped “fragile” in red letters

he talked to her in a way so as never to belittle or blacken her

I never understood this, this was not how my father loved her



So, maybe this is why when I dream of love

I dream of being thrown against the wall, shattered into pieces so small I could lodge in his skin without him knowing

when he tries to touch me like something that may break,

I have already broken,

of words that leave marks so strangers can see that I am taken



Love isn’t a masterpiece, it is a work in progress and my canvas has been repainted 9 times, with only a few lasting more than a night

It is never a finished project, nor a porcelain doll, it is

a work in progress, a barbie missing an arm

It isn’t something perfect,

It is something that if you are lucky, in the end will leave you glued back together

No one loves me
I'm not worth a single drop of blood

It would be wasted
If you spilt it for me

And dry your tears
For I'm the only one that has to cry

This time,
So there's no use shedding them for me

Sometimes, I wish I knew
How to disappear completely

So no one would remember my voice
Have no memories with me

I feel like life
Would merrily move along

If I were just simply
Gone
                     Gone

    Gone.

It is said that the soul weighs 41 grams
this means that of my 68,038 grams my central existence only makes up .06% of my whole being
leaving 99.94% of me bone and flesh
I am made up of strangers
of dust and dirt
of the leftovers…

There is a bird in the poplars!
It is the sun!
The leaves are little yellow fish
swimming in the river.
The bird skims above them,
day is on his wings.
Phoebus!
It is he that is making
the great gleam among the poplars!
It is his singing
outshines the noise
of leaves clashing in the wind.

I offered my soul to the demon
Demon said ,
"You already have me lurking in you  ........
perks of your vice surging ,
being unseen .
You are more of a demon
by being a human
than I am by being me "