a month ago I confessed to my best friend that I tripped over the shattered pieces of my previously broken heart, and smacked face first into a boy that could never ever be infatuated with me like he is with Jack but that for some reason I'm still gaining feelings for him quicker than a shooting star can grant a drunken wish.
she told me that I need to stay as far away from him that I possibly can because he's going to kiss me and leave a permanent stain on my lips and then will tell me that he's in love with another girl and no matter how much I scrub my lips and brush my teeth the stain will always be there haunting me about how I gave myself up to a boy who was always in love with someone else. she said that all my bruises from the old boy just faded away and that I shouldn't put myself into a situation where I would only come out with new bruises and cuts on my ankles from when I had to run through the woods to get away from the feeling of my heart sinking to the bottom of my stomach and then shattering into a million pieces with jagged edges that rip apart my insides.  
I told her that everything would be okay and that he's different. I said that he would put me on his back and that we'd fly through the galaxy and build our own world, leaving behind every single person that has hurt us and made us bleed. I told her that he picked me off of the ground, dusted me off, and opened me up like an old book to see my insides and what my demons look like. and I promised her that he would keep my stitches together until I healed.

but oh boy was I wrong and now I'm bleeding more than ever.

I'm sometimes asked with feigned surprise,
"You write poetry?"
"How Divine!
Give us a sample of your
favorite rhyme!"

But I know what they're thinking.
I see it in their eyes,
"What a waste of time."
"What a joke."
"Better hide the silver,
cuz these types are all broke."

Poetry doesn't pay the bills.
That part is so true.
But, don't deride my compulsion,
or my next hundred verses
will be about "you!"


~~~

The poets are dead.

We killed them
Trading truthful words
For false security.