I’m in love with the way it
feels to look at you and hope
you are mine, to watch your
mannerisms and copy you to
be with you, to admire you
hair and your eyes and your
nose and your ears and your neck and—

If you ever found this,
you must think I’m strange
for looking at you so much.

He was wearing blue
that one fatal night.
That night that would lead me
to wanting you in a way I shouldn’t.
At this age, I don’t know love,
I only know love for family, not you.
Or so it seems.

When I am young,
they assume I know nothing.
Maybe I don't but this is certainly
not child-neglect coming into play.

Non-existent child-neglect.

I hope you’re okay, I really do.
You don’t know how hard it is to
try and keep your mind whilst thinking
about some boy every second.

You plague my thoughts like
fruit flies on an orange
except I like everything about it.
I like hiding it from everyone,
especially you,
especially me.

You were wearing blue that fateful night
that I realised my heart was doomed.

An angel has been so kind in creating you.

The devil has been so evil in creating “us”, however.
So cruel in creating a figment of my love-lorn and love-lost mindset.

So cruel, so I laugh at my half baked chances of talking or making you feel this way.

Running for my life from the snap about to come
Something is going to turn red
My eyes or her throat? Maybe both

Have a feeling I'm going to slide back into the old way.
Quit digesting even though I've seen things online
Quit talking even though my it’s my favourite
Quit the friends even though they're the only thing keeping me going
but won’t quit school.

They can all go to hell, but for all they know:
You're my best friends and I love you guys so much
and I hope we live together and I hope we stay best friends.
I hope we stay until we're old and wrinkly and hate each other.
I already hate you actually.

My body is made of stone.
My skeleton is made up of hellish things.
The hellish things that the weak are all familiar with.
We take them and turn them into weapons.
We turn our weapons on those who made
us like this. Thanks to them,
we are feared by them.
You could say it’s the perfect circle.

Trouble is coming to them and they won't be prepared.

tick, tick, tick.
tick, tick, tick.
the silence is filled
with a steady pulse.
a calming, steady rhyme.
so soft a sound, it could
send me to sleep.

then, an incessant whine
slowly feeds into my
intravenous drip.

We’re thicker than blood.
We don’t share rudeness.
But, once in a blue moon, it happens.

A soirée.
Opposite sides.
One room, two minds.

Except a new monde comes into play.
Brawny, stunning, dark natured.
Everything you aren’t.