Look past my ruined skin.
Past the cracks in my lips.
Ignore the messy hair.
And the way a shade of purple grows under my eyes.

Love the sadness that invades me.
Learn to love my faults.
Do not let my awkwardness miss guide you.
For love is all I want.

Do not ignore me or show signs of disgust.
I am just a girl with a lonely heart.
I deserve better for I try and try.
No signs of a real smile will show on my face.
But I try to smile just to seem brave.

I am the one who falls asleep crying.
Wakes up with a sigh.
And goes through life  thinking about dying.

I do not love myself.
And only one thing I ask from you.
Learn how to love me.
For I ache thinking about you.

But I know... Oh, how I know.
I do not love myself so neither can you.

Rain water soaks us
Runny mascara, but you still think I'm beautiful
Lips so soft
Lips so sweet
We're pressed up against each other
Bare chest to bare chest
You on top
Me on bottom
Hips locked in place with the other
Warm soft sweet lips slowly caressing my body, my lips and my neck you **** on
Soft gentle hands caress my ******* thoughtfully
Finally, her lips reach my thighs, I, trembling with lust and fear
I was scared and she knew it
Her hands and lips touched me
*So softly, so gently

I need you to understand that
the divine does not become divine
by sitting at desks
my double helix had light shining through the cracks
but that only explains why
there is an ache in my fingers
and a need to run in my feet
as long as there is not only darkness I can make my own way

a spotlight illuminates the desk
at which I sit
I am a soul being carried in a cradle
and my hands keep slipping
my eyes are starting to blur
and they just keep watching
sitting in a sea
whispering
shouting
I can't even hear them

I am writing a script at age 17 that I will refer to again
and again
until I am dead
I am writing my future
and I'm not sure who my arms think they are
but they write me entering stage left
and when I exit stage right my cells will have replaced themselves
and my arms will be different arms
the only thing I can hope for is that they will have held what they needed to

I do not know the girl I am writing about
but she knows all about me
she doesn't hate me
I know this because she smiles when she thinks of me
she loves me
but I am her burden
my decisions
affect her decisions
and that is so heavy for my pen
I still see her light shining slightly through the cracks

she will whisper to me
farther along
"It's perfectly okay"
"I was afraid too"
and we will take solace in our decisions
together

The script I'm writing is for both of us
I just hope we can meet
in the middle

I'm awake because
I can't sleep,
because
there's still so much buzzing,
stirring,
whispering inside of me,
burning my bones and
shivering my skin.
I want to touch,
feel,
be felt and
be touched,
to inhale and exhale,
to ruin and create.
I want to be dreaming while awake
and singing while silent,
though my song can never get through
with just a keyboard and
some clumsy fingers.
The air vibrates in
anticipation
as life continues its course;
ever-forward is
its mantra,
and ever-quickening is
its stride,
as I get caught up within
the fleeting nature of
time,
life,
and the sleepless nights
that have slowly become my existence.

my hands
only distance a
few centimetres
from yours
so
why does it feel
like i
have to stretch
a thousand miles
just to
clutch your hand in
mine?

It makes me feel
Lightheaded and fluffy
And makes my cheeks
Turn bright red
To think of my hand
In yours.

It's such a unique gesture,
Holding hands.
So intimate
Yet innocent.

Our hands will fit perfectly
Our fingers interlocked
Like the right pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

My heart will beat faster
Your cheeks will turn redder
And we will feel so much closer
To each other.

Your grasp will be so tight
It'll be impossible to let go.
Just like having the world
On my fingertips,
Literally.

She sits here to write a poem about the color that she has subconsciously chosen for her late night, dark movie of a life; the color that consumes her train of thought.
RED is the iron taste that calms her brain and her sick, hungry craving.
RED is her rage fueled violence that sends her raving.
RED is the chains of love that tie her to the dead man that holds her close.
RED is the remains of her many loved ones overdose.  
RED is the sounds of dark creatures in her room while she fights drowsy consciousness.
RED is the flashing lights arriving at her house to relieve her family of suicidal drama.
RED was her liquid cure to trauma.
RED is the hospitals unforgiving smell of the broken minded girl, in dire need to forget the RED sticky liquid in her hands.
RED is what she feels when no one understands.
RED is the devils strong words manipulating her movements.
RED is the crackling fire preventing her of improvements, it sends her too much joy.
RED is the lipstick that covers her when she pretends to smile.
RED is the lines that begins to pile upon her skin while she deals with the misery she’s living in. She writes her poetry to keep her sane,
Take the bad thoughts, and remove them from her brain.  
To share them with others helps her know that someone cares, because the thought of being alone is the only thing that scares her.
Abandonment has sent her down this path so when she portrays violence, it’s a much perfected craft,
She wants to keep her friends but she just pushes them away because who would like to stay with the girl filled with rage.
What’s sad about this story is that the story is true,
And this story is mine, it’s nothing new. But now you know all my baggage and cracks that keeps me away from the rest of the pack.
I’m an outcast and a liar to say that I’m fine, but the movie that I made with this color is truly divine.
Please don’t worry my dear, I’m getting better with time.
This poem is the past and I’m in the world of new so maybe my next movie in Technicolor would be best if it was BLUE.

It’s all loves fault.

I didn't want to be happy *anyway,
why the **** did it have to come strolling along
to show me how asleep I've been.

Why did I give it the right to parade around me
and then keep marching off
with its drums and dancers,
leaving only confetti behind
and a wide-eyed person relentless
of letting go of the procession but
FORCED to clean up the massive mess on the street that
no one else seems to notice.

It’s in that same moment that we all realize,
we should never throw parties that big,
that festivities that grand shouldn't even be legal.

They’re messy and exhausting and the confetti is
too scattered
to rest assured that we’ll ever
clean every last bit up to toss away.

It’s in that moment that people assure us that
paper is biodegradable and that it just needs
time for the earth to make it natural.
But every bright piece of glitter that gleams on the street,
persistent and as present as ever, is simply
a reminder of that parade with its cheers and
the faint beats of the drums and the moment you had

to stand idly by and

watch it

go.