Two shards of glass,
Now worthless and disgarded.
Coping with loss of what they once were
You and I.

How is it possible
That we might find each other
After years of mutual existence,
And mutual ignorance.

How is it possible,
That wholeness could still be achievable.
If only we opened our hearts and eyes
To one another.

You've always had a way with words
And the conclusion that I am the one that you like most,
Expelled from you like a confession,
And I hope it's true.

In my life, I've known thousands of people
But none with which I could share these things
The depths of my soul
you listen and don't judge.

Today I was struck by a thought
We are title less, Fragile,
and you, broken more recently than I,
Could not possibly be searching for wholeness yet

But I wish you would,
Because your shards connect to mine
Your brokenness heals me,
And mine could you

i painted myself in a rainbow of colours,
manipulating mixtures of paint on my skin,
over and over until i had perfect shades
to stroke across my arms and call artwork.

i strung together words,
enveloping myself in the creation of a melodic song,
hoping that i might be lucky enough
to whisper the lyrics into your ear.

i balanced myself like a violin;
my body supported only
by the tips of trembling fingers
and resting on the promise of a steady chin.

i gave myself to you,
a gift,
that i mistook
for something you may value.

i fell through your hands,
the weight of my body,
too much
for you to hold.

paint dripped from my skin,
as each word that echoed
off of your perfect lips
bleached the colour from my soul.

the melody that i once sang,
faded from my ringing ears.
it was tainted with the sounds
of my gasping for air.

your eyes are august skies
with irises as dark as the mariana’s trench.
drowning has always been
my deepest fear,
but i lose myself in your oceans
and forget to care about oxygen
and that i don’t know
how to swim.

i think poetry is most beautiful
when it is written in pen. unedited.
there is something about reading
the words as they were written.
to see where the tears kissed the page
and how they distorted the writing
as they fell.
i like poems that were intended to be journal entries;
pure naked emotions somehow blessed
with a god-given aesthetic.
sometimes an honest poem
doesn't reflect its title,
as if human emotion altered the original plan.
that's real.
that's poetry.

i made a home for myself,
inside the lungs that you filled with cigarette,
and it wasn't anything beautiful or poetic that made me leave:
i ran out of air.

you called me your princess,
but i wore bruises on my emotions instead of a tiara.
i used makeup to hide the stains of sleepless, tearfilled nights,
chameleoning myself into your facade of lovers bliss.

i ran for my life when i ran from you,
the toxicity of your carbon monoxide affections;
revealed when i let myself become high on oxygen,
to breathe it all in.

all of a sudden a smell becomes a moment, and years after you've stopped wearing that vanilla body spray you still think of your first kiss and ninth grade every time that you smell it. sometimes it takes you by such surprise, it shocks you into the past, and for a moment you love him again.

i am afraid of being alone
but i can't stand being with you.

i let you kiss me,
touch me,
hold me,
because i don't know how to ask you to stop.