I've been told that if a person is good, they don't make you want to drown yourself in acid.
not the case with you dear, never the case with you
They don't make your words and the sounds you lovingly emit from your mouth seem feeble
there you go again, fucking not listening, you just don't listen.
They don't draw red lines over your heart with felt tip pens, guidlines for the scalpel.
fuck off, just leave me alone and stop coming back to me.
I believe I have met good people, may good people, who have kissed bruises and handed bandages.
none as good as you, no one is as perfect. i never had you and you fucking ruined me

I would like to know, if I person is capable of being good, will I be capable of loving them?

my sister used to tell me
that april showers
brought may flowers
but it's nearly june
and there are no blossoms bursting through my ribcage
and the only thing that is
growing on me
is the harsh lumps of reality
fed in doses by sad old men.
and the only other thing
are your eyes
and the way your voice sounds
when I know you are lying
I would give anything
for the may flowers to be growing inside my head
instead of these poisonous thoughts

your eyes are blue
like
like the colour my old lover would paint her nails,
perfect long nails that
slid down my skin every night
as I tried to hold her so tight
that we'd become one
it never worked.

like the notebook I used to write my secrets in
dumb secrets
silly secrets
I thought, as a bundle of self-hatred and five shots of vodka
prompted me to burn it in my mothers back garden

blue like the guitar my best friend used to play
beautiful and eye catching
and it produced the most ugly sounds at his fingertips
to begin with
and then
then it got so beautiful people would weep.
he works in an office
and his hands make ugly words now

blue like the jumper my mother used to wear
the one that had been my fathers
and she'd borrowed it from him the day he drove his car into the lake
his mind somewhere I never want to go.
last month I put that jumper in the ground with her

blue like heartbreak
so many shades
of
emptiness

i am a leech
and I have known this
for a long while
as long as I can remember

every bad thing I know in this world
I have taken
and let it soak into my skin
so well

I have never been myself
I have always been a parasitic
piece of shit
trying to survive

Nothing is ever my own
I am a copycat
a sick fuck
a waste of space

I am no one
and I am everyone I have ever met
but I only seem to
perfect the bad parts

it's the worst cliche
but they've told me that
after seven years of trying
to find you in this world
any skin you'd ever touched
has left my body

all hair you ever
dragged your fingers through
in the dark nights
has been lost
and you never wrote letters
and pixels don't really hold your
heart

the energy that bounced off
of your skin is still floating around
the world somewhere
but it's tainted
by lesser beings
now

they have told me that all
remnants of you
have burnt away
disintergrated
become nothing
at
all

so tell me why I still feel your hands
and your lips
and your smile against mine
and hear your laughter
and your voice

tell me why you are here
tell me why you have left me

i turned to the fifteenth page of your heartbreak
and laughed because at that point
you'd given up all pretence of being sane

your words were dead spiders pressed into the paper
painted black with the blood that pumped from his cold heart
and the aorta was used to keep the page

you spoke on the last page of how broken blood feels
like needles falling from your skin
and how those needles could hurt no one but you

and he embedded eight knives in your back
one for every pair of legs he lay between as yours were firmly shut
and you hadn't been the same since.

so now there are bullets worming their way through his soul
and deep into his future
his blood is as red as the rest of them

stop
stop the lines and the
lies and the
tears
and the words
and leaving

and the feelings and the
hurt and
the memories
of nostalgic evenings

stop being
so fucking
paranoid
and afraid of
breathing

Buy a train ticket
and kiss a boy
and tell a girl that you once loved her with
everything in you.

Visit the grave of your old self,
the one embedded in your mothers eyes and
overgrown by her thinning hair
do not leave flowers.

smile and cry
as though you are at the end of a film
when you board the train
and not at the begining.

But you cannot buy the ticket
and you cannot kiss the boy
because once you have kissed him
there is no where to escape to.

you cannot buy the ticket because you are a child
you cannot kiss the boy because you are scared
you cannot visit the grave in your mothers eyes
because she won't look at you.

hold on tight because soon
soon everything will fall to peices
like the eggshells you
break without regret.

I used to think that I was a mermaid
trapped inside my own bathtub
and I used to think that I was asleep
and violently try to wake myself

I use to have dreams and my reality was
a little bit warped and I miss it
I miss it
I miss not being a realist
and knowing that realism and pessimism is the same
and I miss
not following the rules
and denying that four-plus-three-is-seven
because I could.

In growing up I have become childish

I always thought
That I'd spend my life
Reading the same sad stories
And crying over the same sad endings
To them.

And I'd listen to the same heartbreaking songs
And shed similar tears for each note
That pulled something away from me.

I thought that someones sadness
Expressed in art
Pulled pain into my heart
But happiness
Expressed in art
Breaks me, too.

And I don't know
If I have lost myself
Or found myself
In the tears I have shed
For such enigmatic beauty

I don't know if my heart is broken
Because it has withered away to nothing
Or if it is so full
Of pain and happiness
And everything surrounding and
Inbetween
That it will burst out of my chest.

I know that it is hurting.

At eleven-thirty
reckless motivation
or subdued suicidal ideation
hits
sometimes the lines in my skin do too,
seconds later

and it never lasts to
the weak sun-light
coffee filtered
morning.

My legs itch with the need to run
and I tell myself
at three am
that I'll do it at six
but by that time
I've had an hours sleep
and three cans
of just fucking get through the day
so I'm tired of breathing deep

I'm sorry
doesn't work but I've been a mess lately does
you tell yourself it's good enough and
want to cry as you let the inner poet out
for the nocturnal hours only
and then she dies in your sleep.

sleep well

I used to dream
Of being surprised
and possibly somewhat delighted
and time after time
was let down
(notsogentley)
by my hopes.

But one day I was surprised
and possibly somewhat delighted.
and it has not happened since.
Nor do I expect it to.
And it hurts more now.

(somuch)