I knew my father fell out of love with my mother when his jawline began to tighten, and his eyes stopped looking at her, and started looking through her.

A nervous man, he kept to himself on quiet evenings, and not even an affectionate touch could quite wake him from his emotional purgatory; he was a prisoner of his own heart.

I knew my mother fell out of love when she stopped talking about the sky. Never did she point out the broad spectrum of colors that blanketed the canvas sheet dividing the space between earth and heaven.

A once thoughtful woman, my mother took on a very realistic lifestyle, and began extinguishing the fire that burned in her heart. Now she was cold, and now she was dark, and now the sky, once blue and dreamy, was nothing more than a blackened nightmare.

I've never been in love before, but I will pay close attention to my future lovers jawline. I will color him in with the colors of the sky, and I will cover him in kisses made of day dreams and fairy tales.

I've never been in love before, but I know it never lasts.
At least, not while we're imagining a life we'll never have.

Clouded skies were once green with guilt as they looked on at a love never intended to happen (let alone last). I scrawl secrets onto the backs of my hands and wave, barefaced, to strangers, who have only seen me through the eye-holes of cardboard masks...
I never wanted to be seen.
Yet, your eyes saw the unforeseable, and my heart and soul were spread out over sheer table tops. You examined them with tender, knowledgeable pupils, glazed with beckoning fright. You did not find your happy ending in my book of sad truths. I ceased to be of any value to you, and, since I was not the rare, antique you thought you saw wallowing in a windowshop corner, eventually, you couldn't see me...

i'm not pushing the shift key
because there's nothing left to capitalize
tantalizing thrones of angry kings
their names synonymous with imperialize

i hate you, and you hate me
one of us is lying, and i won't admit it's me
'cause you're everything i wanted
but you're nothing that I need

hollowed bones and quiet whispers
fill what's left of this tired skin
lonely lovers with lost lives stand in line
and await their goodbyes

so as i smash the space key and i silently brood
i hate the way your eyes flicker, the way you say my name
you claim that nothing is wrong between us
but your expression remains the same

i'm not afraid to tell you i hate you,
i'm afraid of what will proceed
the tyrannizing looks of saints and sinners
all believing i have, indeed, gone insane

I move from closet to closet, and fit my arms
into shirts too big for me. I silently wiggle into
acid stained jeans. I lie. We’re too good
at wearing other peoples’ clothes, a fact you
told me in late autumn when I asked to borrow your
coat. Oh, how I wish you told me earlier that you
were afraid of the cold, how I would've gave
you the very jacket I had stolen. But you liked
the way my clothes fit, and you liked the way
your hands slipped into my pockets, and you told me
that there was nothing more to life than the fraying
of fabric or the ripping of jeans. And so, when you
left, and you didn't say I love you, I figured it
was because my clothes stopped fitting you.

S
  o when I die, burry me inside the deepest of graves
  farther than six-feet-under, because if I’m that close
  I won’t behave. I’m too close to him, through the earth
  I feel his sins, and they keep me alive until
T
  omorrow. When the quiet life subsides, there’s no blue
  left in the sky, and the life we thought we lived was just
  a happy little lie. **** affection, I don’t need it, all my
  lies will supercede it, and I don’t need some therapist
O
  ver-analyzing my thoughts, because I’m already dead.
  Love was just a word we made up to feel better about
  the holes in our shoes and the ones in our hearts, and
  maybe I’m not over him, but I’m over the thought of him
R
  eaching out and grabbing my hands, he’s a boy, not
  a man, and he’s too afraid to whisper ‘I love you, too’
  because he’s too busy trying on a new pair of running
  shoes, and I know he won’t ever love me, even though
G
  od and him both tell me to wait and see, and I know he
  won’t stay, even though he swears he’s anchored to me
  and I know when the sun sets, he’ll be nowhere to be found
  just burry me at least seven feet under the ground, ‘cause the
E*
  arth will love me more than him, and the frigid temperatures
  will remind me where I am, and the sun will bleed down promises
  (not so empty this time), and my corpse will be the breeding
ground for new life. I don’t love him, but I’m glad he killed me…

I always wanted to be a flower.
Now I get to be a whole bed of them.