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III Oct 2014
She hung strands of
Sunshine from her neck
And painted her eyes with
The froth of the ocean
In hopes to bring the moon
To envy.
III Oct 2014
Part of me
Wants to cut open
My chest
With a jackknife,

And tear whatever
Resides in those dark
Warm walls
Right out into the world

So it no longer has to
Breath my breathes
And swallow my words.
III Sep 2014
The best way to **** someone is to tell them you love them, then walk away.  You have a chance to revive them from the dead and save their withering soul each and every time they call, but you hang up.  You have a chance to stitch together all the chipped off shards of their heart each time they knock on your door, but you draw the curtains and hide in the dark of your "empty" home.  You have a chance to kiss their lips not with love but rather with the acceptance they desire so deeply each time they mail you a letter, but you burn it over the flame that brews your tea, a flame that burns hotter than the passion you faked so slyly for them.
III Sep 2014
He cocked his head, looked down at me curled up in his arms, vulnerable, I'd imagine he'd see me as, and parted his lips to let out a string of words tied to a sigh.

"What is your favorite memory?"  He spoke, the words dripping off his tongue and slipping down my face, creeping into my mouth, coating the insides of my lungs I no longer breathed from.

I wanted to say this one; The one where I bled to death in his arms, and I finally felt the sting of his tears he no longer had to hide.
III Sep 2014
Milk from the moon
Mats the hair of those
Caught in twilight downpours,

And the sea sings
Tunes rusty with drowned
Ships and voices alike,

And dust cannot be seen
Drifting about if light cannot
Creep through blinds drawn too tight.
III Sep 2014
My fingers get tangled
Between the fiery strands
Of her hair,

The strings of my heart
Restitched in cross-pattern arrays,
A web laced with black nail polish
And a deep, humbling green

That rolls through my body,
Much like the shock of chills do
When her lips brush against my own.
III Sep 2014
They said your name on the announcements this morning, but you weren't around to hear it.  
They spoke it just like anyone else would, but the tone they had was all wrong.  
The curves in the letters of your name -much like the curves of your hourglass figure- did not drip off the announcer's tongue like they should have.  
They were summoned from the front of their brain rather than the inkiest depths of their heart.  
They said your name flat, grim and thin like dull graphite.  
They read you prayer, but I'm not quite sure what it contained, because the moment they spoke your name on the announcements this morning, the floor rushed up and up and up until the crack of my head met the vanilla scrubbed tile.  
The room blurred and the room buzzed and the announcer continued to talk in his unsharpened pencil rasp, and I hoped and hoped and hoped some more that they played our song at your burial.
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