I am empty handed when it comes to us
you leave me deprived of simple human respect
the way you talk to me
you never listen
I know that you are lying when you say you love me
love is not arrogant
the only person you love is yourself
I am only a trophy on your shelf
you take me out when you want to look at me or show me off
but when you are done you put me away
you have adjusted me to revolve around you
you made sure to take every last piece of me when you left
with the intentions of hollowing out my heart
you truly have taken everything else along with it
leaving only a life void of meaning
and empty hands

I wish these feelings could fade away
in the same way you forgot my voice
over time and distance

We write of hate
We write of love
And other things
We know something of

At different angles
Add our lines
Take a spin
With what we find

Fact or fiction
Lies or truth
Being poets
It's what we do

We write of needs
We try and fill
Tug at hearts
Strengthen wills

From natures plight
To the call of man
We hold it all
Inside our pen

As the sage speaks
The pen moves
We say it all
It's what poets do

We write of days
Given away
A solace with
Something to say

Glimmer of hope
Much needed laugh
Rhyme for the reason
For feeling sad

A little off beat
Yet still in tune
Filling a need
It's what poets do

I can’t remember what it felt like to feel anything at all
I don’t know how to change or love
I am transparent
unlike you I can not see colour
and I wouldn’t be surprised
if you told me you couldn’t see any in me either
It’s almost as if I am no longer me
but then again I can’t remember a me
all I can try to do is imagine myself as a contrast of the warmest reds
a girl who loves and was loved
someone who is not afraid to speak but instead screams until heard
I would have the smoothest skin except it would not be thin
nobody would hurt me
nobody would want to not even myself
there would be no scars of apology
I would not be sorry for being me I would instead embrace my life
but that is not me it is only my imagination

Every time you undress me
the tips of your fingers slit into my skin,
with only a simple slide of your hand you can open my chest and kidnap my heart.
I was alive with the sting of your touch but over time the sting became a burn,
and I started to find that you prefer to retrace the expeditions that both your hands and your eyes would endure.
You don’t think twice about reopening scars,
in fact you feel obligated to purposely disfigure me,
even if I could leave you it is your name that covers my body.
You wanted to see how far I’d let you take it, how much of me you could take over
you controlled my life and even my thoughts
somehow you became a part of who I was,
and no matter how simple it could be
I can no longer imagine surviving without you.

I would be lying
if I told you
that you were special to me,
because whether its
you
or
him
holding me in the earliest hours
of the morning
the only thing that matters to me
is that
I am being held,
love to me is much less
significant
much less personal
than it used to be
if its anything to me at all
its feeling desired