come & find me
i've left my phone plugged
into the wall because i can't feel
you breathe through your fingertips
and i can't read your lips through emoji
your belly-button doesn't look right shrouded
in 8 mega-pixel dust and i want to touch you instead
of a keyboard on a screen and tell you about my day because
even though it's written doesn't mean it's real meet me offline because
i don't want a five second snapchat victory snapshot of your *****-line
i don't want my silly romantic poetry to be re-grammed on your insta
framed against a picturesque city skyline or a stoic mountain lion
with hashtags and sexting doesn't turn me on like the sound of
your voice i can write you letters until my fingers bleed but
they always arrive seven days late and you never cry
when you cut them open with a knife and i'm not
looking for a pen pal anyway or a friend
instead i seek a mirror with glowing
teeth or an outlet to plug
into and charge
me up

still wear your shorts to bed sometimes
******* the hole in the side.
i don't connect them with you anymore
except for the few times i catch myself in the mirror
and remember staring at myself in your sliding doors
wondering when i would be brave enough to get away from you.

the pain is dull
like all the white ridges on my arms and thighs
but the boy in shakespeare class
wears your cologne
and monday, wednesday, friday
every breath i breathe in class
is
frightened.

This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.

dating a poet is fun,
and you'll learn things about yourself,
that you never knew.
but when you leave her,
you'll be the one who's broken.

you see,
she'll break you down
into bits and pieces-

she'll carve rhymes
into your rib cage
and
she'll make your kisses
into pentameters.

your voice becomes her rhythm,
and each color in your eye
forms a stanza.

you become pieced together
and poorly stitched,
because she's taken out
the very best parts of you
and the very worst.

she's taken you,
and cut out her favorite parts,
and she'll promise to put you back together,
but the funny thing is,
she never learned to sew.

he didn't ask
i didn't tell
and that worked
now he wants more
than i am willing to give
or have and
i think i love him
or loved him
or could love him someday
but right now
now he wants more
than i am willing to give
or have

i once dated a scientist                                                       i once dated a writer
who tore me to pieces                                               who confused me beyond
dissecting every piece                                           reason and hesitantly let me
of my heart and of my                                                  study her heart and her
mind. i am a writer and                                            mind. i am a scientist and
my mind does not                                                                   her mind is full of
function the same way                                                                     demons and
and my heart is not                                                       her heart pumps words
reliant on the same                                                             instead of blood. she
thing that his is. he                                         used to spend days reliving and
couldn't find the beauty                                      rewriting her past to make it
in spending hours                                                   beautiful knowing it'd take
making messes just                                          hours to clean herself up again
to clean them up but                                              but i'll never forget the way
i found beauty in                                                      she dissected me just with
his brown eyes.                                                                               her blue eyes.

Do you remember all those nights that we painted the town?
When I'd bring you back up when you began to come down.
Our mouths were dry from smoking but never too bad to kiss.
I'd be happy if you were with me and we were laying like this.
When he touches my thigh baby, know it's not the same.
And know that I don't get those butterflies when he says my name.
In another life, another place, maybe we'd work things out.
Perhaps we'd live happy ever after and we'd have no doubts.
But for now it seems the least we can do is try.
No worries, no *******, but just you and I.

What happens when the narcissist
falls in love with the sociopath?

I hope I live to see Ed Sheeran, and Taylor swift live, and spend new years in New York
I hope I make the perfect coffee for my future love and maybe even raise a puppy.
I hope my writing actually gets somewhere,
Than just spilled on a random page,
Of a giant internet database
I hope my little quotes and lyrics
Are sketched into teenage journals
I hope I meet my biggest supporter someday, and hang out with them in Disneyland.
I hope everything stops being crazy,
And everything starts becoming clearer
I hope everyday I am alive, I make positive impact.

I hope, I hope
That the Universe notices,
All the times I nearly broke..
Were all the times,
I began to grow.

I want to tell every addict in the world how high I get looking at you.
When I'm looking at you, I never want that blade again. I never want anything else in my lungs but your breath. I don't want anything shooting up my nose but the smell of you every time we finally meet again. I don't want anything running through my veins, except this burning love.
When I'm looking at you, everything makes sense.
God help me if I ever have to go through withdrawal again.
You're in my veins,  you're making me see things.