The things
I have done
For you
Cannot be counted
On two hands

And neither
Can the times
You have let me down

The times I have
Forgiven you
Cannot be counted
With the hairs
On my head

And neither
Can the times
You didn’t deserve
My forgiveness

The times I have
Seen goodness
In your eyes
Cannot be counted
With the freckles
On my skin

And neither
Can the times
You took my
Second chances
For granted

The times I have
Wanted to say goodbye
Can be counted
On one hand

And the times
I actually will
Can be counted on

One finger

Fingers and bodies
Intertwined
A mess that
Did not need cleaning

Heavy breaths
And tired eyes
Purple necks that
Did not need healing

Embellished sighs
And bitten tongues
Contaminated screams
Reeking of regret

Crawling anguish follows
Wild goodbyes
Empty nights that
Beg for sustenance

Missed calls
And unheard pleads
Dead flowers and
Torn up words

Foreign flesh accompanies
usual thought
An unfamiliar face absorbed
With tight eyes

Taking steps
Forward
With a detached
Head

Fingers and bodies
Intertwined
A mess that
Could not be cleansed

It won’t happen all at once, but sooner or later you’ll look around and bed sheets will be covering everything you knew and the weight of the dust and debris will suffocate you as you try to scream for everyone to come back.

Is this what it's like to be a poet?
To taste every goodbye, to feel every moment?
To feel every detail, to see every flaw?
To kiss every star as the night starts to fall
To fall in love with the way the sunsets
To dream of the birds from dusk to dawn

Is this what it's like to be a painter?
To find it captivating the way the earth moves
Mesmerized by your very own torment
Never caring if anyone else approves
Ingenious, stamped across your forehead

Is this what it's like to be an artist?
To find beauty in the pain that transcends
From the demonized garden growing within?
To find something alluring in the way
*People walk away

I want to make art for you.
I want to make art for you because you are beautiful.
Because you're simple, not in a coarse way, but in a wholesome way.
In a way like the sky or the rain.
You just are, and I wish I just was.
I want to make art for you to thank you for that.
I want to make art for you because I think maybe not enough people have.
Because you ever wanted to die,
And because I'm so glad you didn't.
Because you like storms the way I do
And you make me think new thoughts when I don't think I'll ever find any more
And because you hold a thousand people inside of you, ready to leap onto a page or seep out through your skin,
All of them beautiful and clear
(Like the sky and the rain)
I want to make art for you because
There should be art out there because of you.
Not just created by you
But created because of you.
I want to make art for you because you are another way to love someone
That I didn't know existed.

There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.
Something comforting.
It is a comfort only very damaged people understand- the tacit agreement to cause pain, and to receive it.
Pleasure is for people who have what they want.
But for those of us who are starving, ours is best peppered with suffering.
Being with someone who understands that carries its own worth-
I don't want you to make me feel good.
I couldn't stand it if you did.
I don't want you to touch me gently, or ask if I'm alright, or stop to look into my eyes.
I am starving, and so are you: I want your teeth.
I want you to make me hurt. And I want to hurt you.
I want you to hurt me because I'm not him, and I want to hurt you because you're not her.
We want to see each other suffer because we are starving and we need to feel that someone else is.
Don't hold back. I want you to lower me because I'm too good for her.
Don't love me, don't caress me. Dig your nails in. Drip candlewax on my stomach.
One step down from torture is all I can stand in the way of human connection, when it isn't her.
Punish me for looking at her like a baleful puppy tonight, even as you waited in my room with your soft skin and your sharp teeth.
There is nothing you can do that will be too violent, too brutal, too sadistic.
I don't want to be loved right now.
I am too raw.
I want to be touched. I want to be ruined. Leave marks. Smear lipstick.
Lower me because I am
Too
****
Good for her.
Let this heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs don't matter.
Help me **** it. Help me pin my demons to the bed and make them writhe, and I will do the same for you.
Let's exorcise our loves tonight and banish them to hell.
Let's tell our skin that it is irrelevant.
Let's say "*******" to the things that bind us. I will cut your heart out for him.
I will kiss your scars, not to heal them but to remind you that when you put them there you fought for something, something we both fight for now.
Hurt me. Fight her. Do it for her.
Do it for her because I'm not good enough to hurt.
Do it for her because I'm TOO good to hurt.
Crush me.
You could boil me alive and it wouldn't make up for her, so at least leave me bruised.  
I will give you what you need, and you will give me what I need: not love, but contact.
Please,
Let my heart know on no uncertain terms that its needs
Don't
Matter.

There is something beautiful about two sad people who agree to hurt each other.