Getting rid of facebook was like getting rid of a virtual cemetery that I felt compelled to visit,
leaving flowers to dead relationships by liking a photo or poking someone who you haven’t spoken to in person for years.
Like people, some relationships are meant to have died.
Facebook doesn’t allow for those dead relationships to Rot,
the smell lingers for years in the corridors of your daily life;
its like every one you’ve ever come in to contact has been embalmed and is being stored alphabetically in your computer.

***** imperfect love.
Let me lick my wounds to help them heal, let my push aside my insecurity and drink down a potion of evaluation and logic to settle my stomach.
Let me learn to bite my tongue when need be.
Words uttered cannot be rewound.
They linger, they penetrate through even after the apology is heard.
I need to value myself first in order to value us.

revisiting the red moons and fallen stars of times gone by serves only to underline your pain in red biro.
Past wounds would heal if only you stopped scratching them with ***** nails
your wounds you see are infected,
oozing from them only hatred

let past arguments fade like the scars we acquire on our knees from falling in gravel as children
do not pour into them more tears or time
do not allow your scars to glow brighter than you
you are not your scars, you are not your bitter thoughts

not everything you think needs be uttered in times of anguish,
not everything your partner fails at needs to be noticed
and when something is done and over, there is no sense in digging its decomposing body up allowing its stench to squander your precious life together
When the dead body of a passed argument is buried, leave it in the ground where it belongs so you don't regress but rather progress

Moving forward place one foot in-front of the other cautiously
you may not know what lays ahead
what you do know is love is real
and sometimes it can struggle for breath even in the most deepest of trysts
when it struggles do not retreat, do not allow your self to feel defeated
real love continues to breath even under the dark smog of battle
and after the battle is over, it emerges stronger than before..

i dont think i’ll ever be important enough for anyone to want to take my photograph apart from my parents.
Those freckles
That bump in my nose
Who cares

Your face