we have gotten to know each other.
you have seen more to me than you might have liked to, but i have seen more of you than i could have ever
dreamed of.
your body and it's crystals and it's galaxies,
not always like the ones that i saw in my dreams because in them i remember your eyelids closed for me,
but in this world my lips are not on them but rather in front blowing
eyelashes out while my mind wanders into bottomless voids of
you
you
you
you
and i thought my love poems did not mean anything.
but you make every single word worth it.
every syllable.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
i would love you until you died
until those eyes staring up and down my body
rolled
backwards
until blood trickled down those bottom lids I used to kiss
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 10:31 PM UTC
you know that i love you,
but maybe you should start praying for real instead of caressing each of my ribs under dark motel light when I lay on my back for you, words of religion rolling off your tongue treating each bone you touch like beads on a rosary instead of a frightened girl's body
and i don't know when this started but you're starting to scare me with your fiery tongue and your hands in my mouth and around my neck
and you know that i love you,
but i am no longer afraid to lose you
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
"what's worse?"
I ask
a little pebble,
"Indulging in sin
or decaying within?"
of course,
he doesn't reply,
he never has or will—
but at least he hears
my faint cry
and listens, real still.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:39 PM UTC
you are eighteen and you're in love
with a boy who hates his birthday.
you don't know it yet,
but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car.
you think he needs you to be happy and so does he
but both of you are wrong.
it'll take you almost a year to stop crying.
and then you don't talk for another three
and when you finally do,
he thinks he still knows you,
but your heart is heavier than it was then.
and you **** him because you're lonely
but it isn't the same.
neither of you can fake love.
at least he still makes you laugh.
you'll pretend it's enough
because at least he's a body.
at least you're not by yourself.
at least you're alive
and you're good at *******
because bodies are distractions
from the things we hide inside them.
you have him inside you
and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad.
he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night
and you laugh.
you know what this is and how it goes
and you both love someone else.
you swear you won't **** him again
but you do anyway because you're still lonely
and you like the way his hands fit around your neck.
you **** him because it's good for your art
and you get bored of your own hands on your body
and you're fine with letting him feel useful.
and you think about when you were sixteen
and how *** was supposed to be special
and it makes you cry
because you're not who you wanted to be.
it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger
after you left the backseat of his car.
the world is so big and you don't know
how it ended up on your shoulders.
you would have died for him.
you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved.
you have dreams where he dies
and you can't save him.
you have dreams where people die
and you can't save them
and you're the one who tied your hands.
your mangled heart and all its bleeding.
nobody asked you to die.
what good is all the love in your chest
if you don't leave any for yourself?
- m.f.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
but my body still shook like a
storm
under his weight
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
inspiration and imagination leeks through the hollow walls and onto the sticky floor of strawberry flavoured *****
boys and girls kiss and touch while the poison seeps into their blood and i sit and
watch
everything
i watch the liquor move
i watch the bodies
i watch the sticky ecstasy in the air
i feel too
i feel the breath of my peers
i feel the heat of close skin
i feel the lips of strangers on my neck
i feel strangers hands run up my thighs
i watch and i feel and i experience and i submerge into a world that's unlike anything ive ever seen
it's a world so far from my cautious thoughts and frightened heart
here i can taste your skin on my teeth and i can feel your nails dig into my rib cage as your lips become hypnotic and addictive
here i am wrong in a devils game
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.
dear whateverthefuckyournameis,
i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.
- m.f.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
older men
later nights
ferry rides and a photo's sight
tight dresses
sweet guesses
lips on cheeks &
lies and messes
rain on your windows
tongues on your teeth
whiskey on your breath
daydreams of me
you feel like SATIN
but you taste like
POISON
beautifully mislead
with all but paranoia
we've got classroom
SMILES
but the things we do on bathroom
TILES
and we always stay up late
but it's all for the survival
and late nights in that apartment don't seem so
long
when all you've been doing is
singing my
SONG
and
licking your
LIPS
touching my
THIGHS
kissing my
NECK
while you say
GOODBYE
but guess which one of us said the lie
because in the morning after you said i'd be
GONE
im still here because with you nothing felt too
LONG
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC