5:17 AMand it's sad to thinkthat if you came backto tear me apartagain,i'd let you.
One Day His Life Will Be a Classic.There's sorrowon his lips,and sonnetsin his eyes.Each scar on his wrist,speaks in fatal monologue.He lives a tragedynot evenShakespeare could write.
this can't be pain, it hurts too much.i always fall addictedto dangerous things,but at least cigaretteswarn me on the label.your smile read only innocence,but i guess that's my faultfor misinterpretation.
the shadows beneath my eyes remind me of you.i got bored in class last friday,so i wrote a poem upon my hand,and when my teacher walked by he read it."that's deep," he said."i know," i told him,"i'm drowning."
how to love a boy who is lost.falllike you're jumping from a cliffinto a thrashing sea whose waters you cannot tread,dive into their depths and fill your lungs with waves.just don't close your eyes,because you have to search for him.feel your weight drag you to the bottom,feel the ocean embrace youand don't be afraid of that pounding in your chest.each heartbeat is sonara signal calling him and his calling you.learn to swim nowif you drown you cannot save him.swim to the fallen cities,the submerged castlesand maritime gardens.there you'll find him,lost in thought and studying the fish.i hope you saved some oxygenso you can breathe during the kiss.
rain.i still have buckets in my roomfrom when you poured your heart out.plastic pails full of pain and loveand lust and tears and names and smiles.i don't know why i keep them...maybe i hope one day you'll come backto claim them.or when i'm being really dumbi let myself hope that you'll come back anywayfor me.
left.i just needed you to staybut you couldn't hear me beg you,because the world outsidewas so damn loud.
december.and when they take meto the morgue,will you see the differencebetween my skin and the sheet?and when they close my eyesplease be standing over me,so that your facewill be the last thing they see.and when those tears falldown from your facepour them on my lips,so i can take you with me.and when they look awaycaress my bloodless face,give me one last gush ofwarmth.and when they bring the casketgently tuck me away to sleep,read me one last storyfrom that book atop the shelf.and when they place me in the ground,beneath six feet of dirt,leave your footprints in the snowand please don't let them melt.and when I fall to helli'll be waiting at the gates,but darling please take your timethere is no need to rush.
midnights always last longer than they should.i spend sleepless nights in my roomstaring at your picture on my mirrorand wondering why on earth someone as beautiful as youwould ever love someone like me,but then i rememberyou don't.
i think most people would call you a regret.you're the mistake i'd gladly makefor the rest of my life.but i'm just a few saturday nightsback in november.
Artists.Youcan be the painter,paint words on my lips.Iwill be the writerand write kisses on your skin.
friday night.on our firstdate,you took me to a cemeteryjust outside of town.i guess you wanted toshow mewhat you would do to me.
i hope you remember to bring the flowers.the stars whispered lateone nightas we lay beneath theirgrandeur."what if i die today?" you asked.and i told you in that case,i'd see you by tomorrow.
astrology.i never wanted to be anastronomeruntil I fell in lovewith those constellations,freckled about your face.
epitaphs don't count as love letters.he said my eyesgasped like a dying breathand he wasn't going to wait aroundfor the funeral.
hollow.i gave you everythingi hadjust to make you wholeonce more,and then you left meempty.and now i wanderlike a ghostjust searching for some placeto haunt,because your dooris closed to me.
Flawed Canvas.Your lipsleft watercolorstainsall across my heart.My blood isn't evencrimson anymore,its a pale and dyinglilacthat bleeds onto the floorand paints a pictureof you.
i'm going to need you to breathe for us.don't fall in love with mebecause i don't do things the way your exes do.i'm not going to take you to some fancy restaurantwith a suit and tie and valet to park the cari'll take you to a library insteadwe'll go shopping togetherat goodwilland try on some other people's grandparent's clothesfor hours.we'll get new names and fake shitty accents for each reflectioni'll convince you to buy an ugly jacketby telling you your face is so damn prettyno one's going to look once at that color blocked windbreakercirca 1987.you'll wear it in the car,but fidget uncomfortably when we stopso we'll switch coats outside the art museumyou'll take my picture next to some abstract piano sculptureconstructed of old park benchesand tell me that i'm brave,but i'm just a coward who likes to make you laugh.i care too much about what people thinkbut not when i'm with youbecause those strangers are just echoes of your shadow.we'll go into the bell tower of that catholic church by the harbo
TonightBring me to lifeWith your touch.Love me now,Forget me later.Set me on fireWith your lips,Breathe heatInto my soul.At least for tonight,Let me feel again.
he/himsomeone came out to me recently, asked me to usehis correct pronouns when we’re alone,but says whenever i’m over at his home,‘please could you switch back to the wrong ones? i don’twant my parents to know who i am.’ so every time i sit at their tablefor mashed potatoes and peas, i listen to a father askinghis son how her day was and i hear him start to think that he’s aloneand i watch every wrong word they say strike like an axe intothe trunk of a young sapling who’s juststarting to grow into his own.i know they don’t know better, but it’s hard notto hate them when i am censoring every word i saybefore it comes out of my mouth, changing secrets intodinner time conversations, because a boy does not feelsafe enough in his own skin to come clean about somethingas pure as the foundation he has been built upon.later he tells me that he wishes he were strong enoughto just tell them, but he knows his father stillhas the c
the boy i used to write poems aboutTHIS POEM IS NOT ABOUT LOVE.you took the posters off the walls for the first time yesterday,moved the bed back into the corner and stocked up on that teayou love but i’ve always disliked. openingthe blinds used to be a sin but now they drown the room with sunlight,causing your hair to turn that ugly dirty-blonde color i absolutely hate.last night, i heard from a friend you got the job at that fancy newspaperand you’re finally going vegan - don’t let me forget to tell you your riskof heart attack will double, maybe triple.i haven’t gotten an email in twenty-four days. oftentimes,you don’t realize you're falling apart because you're in the process of falling apart.my mother came over to help me move into my new studio.we pushed the bed (mattress, you claimed the frame) into the middle of the roomand put on new sheets. these don’t smell like you, not thati could even smell-taste-hear-see-feel these days.you stole my heart and bed frame an
there aren't anymore saturdays.it's funny that you thought you couldtear me apartbut weeks passed with your nails against my soultell me when did you realize that i'm nothingand there's nothing inside my skinno feelings for you to tearand all you did was hurt your hands andtangle your hair.i wish i could laugh.
What I Gave YouI gave you my timeAnd you wasted itI gave you my loveAnd you ignored itI gave you my heartAnd you broke itI gave you my soulAnd you lost itI gave you my lifeAnd you sent me to Hell
the aftermaththe temple of her body was torn open tonight,desecrated and lit on fire. i swear, gods have burnedand felt less pain than i do as i write these words down,because she’s crying in my bathroom right now and i haveto go and convince her that the handful of feathersi have left in my palms could ever equal the wings he snippedoff of her tonight. she will never fly again. she will neverbelieve so wholly in herself again. her body is no longera temple, her body is a landmine, an open wound, a thousandfoot drop off of a bridge, a stranger to her. she will neveragain be able to trust her body, to know her body.this is not the first poem i’ve written about rape. but this isthe first poem i’ve written about rape when my handsare shaking and i have a twenty second phone call still ringingin my ears. it’s not about statistics anymore. i cannotdistance myself from the cold, hard facts by using prettymetaphors about dissolving and beginning anymorebecause a gi
NothingI heard someone sarcastically sputter,"You are what you eat."But hearing that sole sentenceallowed me to finally understandwhy I amwhat I am:Nothing.
hi momhigh school’s getting a bit toughand i just wanted to know if you’ve everlooked in the mirror and thought that maybeyour five year old self was disappointed in you.just wanted to ask if maybe you’re disappointed in me,just wanted to tell you that this is a lot harderthan i thought it would be when i was five becausepeople are a lot more different now than they were then.they're a lot better. and a lot worse and things are a lotmore complicated now that i realize the gerbil i hadwhen i was six didn’t just “fall asleep” while i was holding itand the cat i had when i was eight didn’t really “run away”while i was at grandma’s house.i’m still not sure about the line between good liesand bad lies but my friend told me it has somethingto do with intent and i know you hate tosee me cry so even on days i feel like the dead seainside, i promise i will not let go.i just wanted to ask you how it felt when dad told
i read about serial killers not saintsshe says, “what are humans made out of,if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”i think to myself that humans are madeout of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’tfound a way to love us bloodily and morbidlythen he will never be able to look past anyof our self-taught imperfections.but i say none of this, just nod and smile,and wonder what it means that to her,all that i am is a series of mistakes stackedon top of each other. my entire body is a pasti cannot outrun no matter how many timesi move away and forget my name and who i usedto be.she tries to take away my body, but i have foughtfor sixteen years to gain these inches of self-loveand i am proud to stand before her now wearing muscleand skin. i want to tell her that i am ninety-threepercent star dust and that means ninety-three percentof who i am has lived in a blackness so absolutethat the only light i had was the one i created for myself.i want to tell her that’s something i thi
Speechless.I wanted to writea poem foryou,but when you leftyou took everything,even the wordsI never spoke.