The birds are debating.
It's 5 A.M.
Why the **** am I awake?

In all honesty I've never been good with words. I never knew what to respond after the doctor would ask me what hurt, or what to tell my mother after I saw her cry when my dad left. Poetry is placing words in all the wrong places in order to build something right. Poetry is taking apart the puzzle and forcing the pieces into spaces they don't fit. I tried to write you a letter to tell you that I miss you, the problem with poetry is that there's no metaphor that makes this emptiness inside my chest any more beautiful. There's no personification real enough to make my sheets feel like you're laying in them. There's no simile literal enough to make my heart feel as though its healing. I wish I could place these words on my tongue and roll them out for you to hear, but since I've last kissed you I can't even find the motivation to part my lips. I always find myself questioning why I keep writing; because the problem with my poems is that you're never the one reading them.

It ends here, now.
This compromised soul,
this tired acceptance of a dead hope;
too much time wasted in longing
for something that brings forgetfulness.

Somehow, I love you.
And everything you still stand for.

I don't know how many disguised lines
were puked up by me in dark alleys,
or scribbled in a ***** notebook
alongside tradecraft and parameters.

So many years and I'm still bound by something,
some smiling morality whispering
seductively of what might have been,
if only I had thrown loyalty and that
outdated wraith called honour aside.

I understand that I'll never see you again,
will never have the chance to rectify
the wrong I did to your heart and soul
in the name of something that doesn't exist.

Never did I understand why Everett tried
so hard to put you on display; but looking back
now I get why you wanted Krum so bad,
and why you tried to trust me.

Regardless of what may have passed,
I still want to thank you.

Thank you for giving me a place to sleep,
and a friend when I had no one.

I re-experience her,
here,
yes here.
The joy that was lost long ago.
We share again,
we smile again.
I remember the only thing,
the river,
the warmth.
I confess,
something never said before.
We share again,
we smile again.
It wasn't meant to be,
but still,
I wait,
here,
yes here.

Thinking of the first time you slapped me and how I was stunned, too stunned to react

And how it escalated from there, into scratching and biting and cutting and burning

And how the light in your eyes made me numb to the pain

And how the taste of my blood in your mouth suddenly became heaven

And how you ran your fingers through my hair and told me you knew you could do anything and I'd still be right there

And how you were ******* right, you're still ******* right because the second you call me love, I accept all of the poison just to have you back.

Just to feel better, he smoked his life away and now I am left here, picking up pieces of him from his ashtray.