it's the hardest thing in the world,
watching you fade.
I'm waiting until you become dust
all for a more prominent ribcage
and to be able to cut diamonds
with your collarbones.

it's the hardest thing in the world,
watching you cry
in front of your reflection.
your pain is never beautiful
but your soul always will be.
you always were.

it's the hardest thing in the world,
watching you die.
you were always so fragile,
so delicate. I fear you might snap
when I try to hug you close,
with your bones digging into my arms.

it's the hardest thing in the world,
watching you fight.
although, it's not so much of a fight
when you're too tired to
and the winner is guaranteed
and you never wanted to win anyway.

Our
                        Whole
                         Lives
                         Are made
                         Of blades.
                         We couldn't
                        Live without
                        Them. It's the
                        Sharpened steel
                        Doctors us to bring
                        Us into our life.
                        It's the cool metal
                        That cuts the
                        Wood to build
                        Our homes.
                        We taunt with
blades keeping such deadly weapons in our homes. To cut our food, and groom our faces. But the greatest irony      
                 comes from life itself,
                for the very blades we
                     Use to protect and
                       Keep our life,
                     Turned around
                     Destroy our very
                     Being and cause
                    Our lives to bleed
                 From the fatal wound
                      Making the end  
           Harmonize with the beginning

I never loved you

I never even really liked you that much

You were just a boy that was there, that was nice

That’s all just a boy

I just wanted to be a girl

I wanted us to be like leeches, like parasites

We get what we wanted and then fall off

And that’s what I did but you

You refused to leave, you grew attached

you said it’s over you said I’m done

But you were the one that wasn’t leaving

And when I did you followed me

You aren’t a very good leech

Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.

Is there anything else to blame
when you finally look at yourself?

If I carved the words "I love you"
into every inch of my skin,
would you believe them?
Would you believe me?

If I painted a picture of my heart
with the very blood that it pumps,
would you cherish it?
Would you cherish me?

If I promised that there was no one else,
that there was only you,
would you accept that?
Would you accept me?