I wish you could see yourself
In my eyes.*

Although there's no reflection,
I admire the complexion.
My eyes sting raw with the pain of perfection.

Your pulchritude blinds like the morning rays
Shaking me from slumber and demanding I raise,
I dismiss my obsession as if it's a phase.

Little do I know, it will last for days:
The obsession of the pleasure you do on my gaze.

Maybe seconds, maybe forever;
From that face, my eyes can't sever.

I'm lost in your pores, I'm lost in your mouth.
I've lost my mind as my eyes wander south.

Over your throat, and grazing your chest.
I promise it's not lust;  I only want to test.

What is beneath you? Your zephyrean coat.
What words do you hold inside of your throat?

I'd peel you open, just to see what's inside.
Trust I won't dig, *please don't hide.

I've never seen such a handsome shell, but I crave its meat; only time will tell.

I'll let you in, if you let me peek.
Let your walls leak.
No hide and seek.

In the eyes of the earthly
I am still just a bud
I am barely seventeen

But my soul has lived
And through living,
It has died on numerous occasions.

I have scars
That still often
Somehow bleed.

The wrinkles and grey hair
On my heart
Are beyond my years.

Still I cannot figure out
Why a lump fills my throat
On my birthday.

I cannot fathom the scribbling in my brain into poetic queues as of now. I am in excruciating pain but I am liberated. I am dying on the inside but somewhere behind my rib cage is a thump. Less of a thump, more like a knock. The love of my life is tearing me to shreds and the universe is softly tapping its knuckles on the door. Through an addictive relationship I have discovered my origin.
I am a healer. I am an angel and I can do no true harm to a soul; I heal even those who are the radial balance of my suffering and bleeding. I have an expendable heart; it has been squeezed, sliced, punctured, chewed, stepped on, scraped, pulverized, shattered, cracked, drained, dried, bitten, and hungrily ****** on by the mightiest of leeches. I stand before myself scarred but glowing like the chest of a newborn child. Once again my pain has given birth to me. I am new, the world has not made me an *******. I refuse. I will love. I will care. I will heal and I will push through my crucifying pains of being leeched. I will continue to give what cannot be returned to me.

We talk with
The flitting understanding
Of space
Between two feeding birds.

Eyes look away
And return eagerly
Waiting to transmit
More of the feeling.

The feeling
Between us both
That both implodes walls
And builds them.

The feeling
That blushes in our words
And makes our silences
So loud.

The feeling fluctuates
Softly around our eyes
And strokes us both
With intangible caressing.

Stare at me.

Speak with me.

Be silent with me
For no matter what is said
Or unsaid
I am getting
An earful.

Masochism is my favorite way to love; I adore deeply the one that is eager to leave me in the dust for his superficial passions. I cry infinitely as the rain over the Pacific, but it does not storm. It only blinds me with stinging tears that make a shore invisible. I had you wrapped around my finger, and you slipped off like an oversized ring, falling between the spaces of a gutter to travel sewers of risk; rank with the smell of doubt and returning loneliness. I travel these sewers barefoot with your risks up to my ankles, searching for you, my ring, dress hiked up to run as if you hadn't already seen such exposed leg. But only I splash. My lover is elusive. When he trembles in anger, he comes to me; when I tremble, he only flees. He does not understand his debts. I do, only I don't wish that he pay. My kindness is self-mutulation, for I know he will not appreciate my generosity. I think of him while he daydreams of riches and soaks in his wanderlust. I am simply a piece, a fragment, a speck of dust swimming among many in a ray of sunlight. I am not something he truly wishes to strive for. This murders me, and smashes my already broken heart into smaller, sharper pieces that seem harmless, but develop greater capacity to cut flesh.

I cherish your voice
Like the last drop of coffee
On a restless morning.

I wish it was us raining
Falling and melting together
As the sky's tears do.

I long to be the song
Circling tiredly through your head
When you lay down at night to sleep.

I'd give up three meals
If every time I ate
I dined on the warmth of your lips.

I wish to be steaming water
Rolling over your skin
Making you sigh with satisfaction.

I want to be the towel
That kills the cold air
Right when you leave the shower.

We will be the clock
That ticks to forever
For time is no challenging measure.

Today, I tore my heart off of yours with unparalleled force. I told you I wanted to be friends.
I don't.
I told you this will help me heal.
It won't.
You are missing from me; my eyes burn no longer with tears but with fatigue.
You bid me to sleep soundly. You feed my soul with fruits that can only be found hanging from the crooked tree that is you.
I let you bend me until I broke,
And you are all that can put me back together. I've never been so confused and submerged, suffocated and frustrated, for you can't give me what I want or need.
I try to convince myself you don't deserve me, and you don't.
This is unhealthy.
I want anything that will numb the pain or speed the scarring.

Gaping holes
Fill my soul
And make my heart a sponge.

It only absorbs
The painful water
And filters out the love.

My tears are fresh,
The blankets cold,
And now my warmth is gone.

I sit and listen
To silent weeping
That plays the night a song.

The opened heart
That threatens to flee
Is begging and pleading to close.

Still, it cannot;
The key was stolen
By the lover I chose.

You were the last person
I thought
Would put a hammer to my soul;

and the first person I thought
That would close
The hole.

The kissing, the stares.
The stroking of hair.
All transparent; but placed with care.

You say you still love me,
And I don't know how.
Why didn't you love me then
Instead of now?

I was in love,
And you were out.
You dealt your blow
Now you come about?

Picking, and digging
For treasures once walked over?

Caressing my heart like it is glass,
When it is in shards;

Cut your fingers
on the remnants
Of your actions;

You won't feel a fraction
Of the wound
Between my ribs.

A way to **** your soul?
Allow it to believe it is half of a whole.
Souls don't always belong to another;
not a father, a mother, a friend or a brother.

Some belong to silence.
Some belong to alliance.
Some **** greedily from the breast of violence.
Souls like money, souls like trades.
Souls like sunny, souls like rain.

Souls pull on everything that may heal you,
All while pushing away everything that may.
They keep your wants and needs away,
All while keeping your fears at bay.

Souls like ***, no matter the meaning;
Contiguity feeds the soul that is leaning.
Leaning into a vacuous space;
Pursuing nothing in an infinite chase.

No one is there, not a soul.
Nothing is there to fill the hole.
Dig and dig as deep as you crave;
But there was never a soul to save.

I went to Palm Beach carrying every shard of my soul today. It was empty, and it was going to storm. Not a soul but I. The waves brought in sting with each rolling army of sea foam, and I cried with the salt water of the Atlantic. That water roared with the screaming amputees that lay oozing in my heart. I thought about becoming one with the water; taking a deep breath of blue to end the pain. But I didn't. I let the shards of my spirit cut my palms as a buried them in the sand; I let the sharks smell my blood. I let the tide leave with my soul.

I didn't know
You weren't happy.
I had no idea

Until I saw
The star in your eye
disappear,

Your dimples get shallow
and the creases around your eyes
fade with your smile.

I have tried so hard
To be the water
Warming you in the shower.

But now I can see,
I am burning
your skin.

At birth we are saplings;

absorbing and sponge-like;

anchored by flimsy roots.



Each developing child is a sliver,

a woodchip,

a branch.



We send our saplings to schools

to be stripped of their bark

and pounded into smooth identical geometrical shapes;

shapes incapable of stretches and growth.



These equations and grammaticals add shape,

not depth, so simple

simple enough to identify our souls

with a string of numbers and letters.



I was born a sapling,

born to stretch, twist,

reach for illumination; fueling the roots

from which I sprang.



Why do these axes

clad in their glasses

want to beat me into factory form?



We should be watered and nursed

until our trunks grow rings

incapable of calculation;



Teach me to grow toward the sun,

and not to become a fragrant product.



Teach me to drop fruits of wisdom

and throw flowers;

for apples can only drop

from fruitful trees.

Sitting at the table
She appeared as a boquet
Of roses, ****** red.

He can smell her scent
Admire the beauty
Brush his hand upon her head.

Although she blooms
And her stems are ripe
She feeds on only pain.

So on this flower,
Thorns cut smart,
And through his soul they slain.

I'm not asking for
A soulmate.

The last thing
My soul needs
Is another piece to carry.

But if you ever
Want to hitch a ride
I'll scoot over.

You can sit
Next to Pain
And roll the windows down,

For once again
My chest
Is on fire

The owl at the glass
Perching
Says "who."

Time and time again
I tell him
It's you.

The loneliness gets to me every once and a while. I actually do fine without anyone, but of course taking the time to think about it changes everything, scrolling through my dash on Tumblr, or just feeling the floating aura that radiates off of someone who’s in love…makes you feel the empty pit right below your sternum. And you wonder what it’s like to feel butterflies there…true butterflies. For me, they’d be pterodactyls; I don’t know what it’s like to truly feel for someone on that level and for the feeling to be returned in the same magnitude. This makes me wonder how people rush things. A touch should be cherished, and one should pull every bit of tingle from it that they can before he/she takes her hands away. I long for that, but I've done a fantastic job at convincing myself that I don’t. I can’t see myself being loved that way, so much that he would slow down, be serene and stoic with me, share all his thoughts and vibrations, and not be a total **** that falls into the stereotype of an attractive guy who can’t keep up a conversation. I feel no attachments to the people I've dated. None. Their faces and voices do not phase me like I once pretended they did. I’m drawn in by their ability to intrigue me and stimulate my mind, and then they stop doing it because they don’t understand how it satisfies me.

In the twisting of the road where the grass grow fit
A house with a pond and a bridge is to sit

Two happy lovers with their tangled limbs in bed
Usher in the morning with muscles laying dead

Night time love making exhausts their souls
And all through the night he filled her holes

Not holes of the flesh, or holes of the face
But holes in the soul that make waste of one's base

Wife lay comatose with dandelion hair
And husband sit attentive to watch and stare

Watch, watch her sleep just in case she escape
Tangled **** in his bed as if covered in drape

Early at dawn he begins to seek her flesh
For beneath her flesh lay something to enmesh

Fill, fill the holes so watchful lover
And harvest the body that sleeps under cover.