I want to change, as in,
I want to be better, as in,
I think something's wrong, as in,
I wish I could go back to before things mattered

Busy hands.
I don’t know
Sorrow is so much more glamorous
Than obsolete joy

She was beautiful. Blonde, blue eyes,
She loved sunshine and old rock music,
She was everything.

Sometimes things just fall apart.
It's okay.

She was nothing

Until I look in a mirror, I forget that I have a physical form beyond these arms and feet and hands, outstretched into a world I do not like or understand.
I am a cherry cordial of mismatched matches that have all been doused in a liquid, I cannot tell if I am covered in gasoline or water.

I feel that the magic has left my fingertips
That my art in all forms
Has become greyed
And unenjoyed.
I feel that the childlike love I once poured
Into pots of paint
And graphite tips
Has gone away,
To be replaced by need
And money

The biggest change
In the past three years,
Is that I have become
Someone important
To myself

I can't write this with words softened.
You're up and down,
In a  Myriad of ways.
You see my heart, its doors opened.
You know me too well.
It's killing me, just a bit.
I wonder if you're what they cautioned.
Difficult to handle,
But you give me such a buzz.
You have too many pieces, horizons broadened,
But still, I still come along with you.
In a myriad of ways.

I'd love you in the nighttime,
But you stay too far away.
I'd love you in the daytime,
But it's all harder to say.
Come climb into bed with me,
We can dance the night away.
Through your window, morning at three,
I'll climb in and kiss you someday.
Bring to my sleeping prince, some way,
All the words I had meant to say.

I want to know what it's like to be satisfied with somebody

to wake up in the morning next to someone who thinks I'm beautiful and be satisfied with me

I don't remember ever being satisfied with somebody, not properly.

being happy

old sentiment for kings and queens

that seemed steady in my heart

and then left me with a loss of trust

and a ring I threw in the lake whose attitudes I have learned to impart

yearning for satisfaction begs reaction of interaction and love and

old sentiment for kings

Writing his name feels like a panic attack.

I was fifteen. Young kid, lonely.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.

He was eighteen. Average man,
He already knew me.
I went to his house and he gave me a hickey.

Little red mark on my neck, pretty pink,
On my skin it stayed, as I leaned over the sink.
Last night's dinner was going to come up.

The bra I wore to his house,
I've only worn it once since then.
Wearing it feels like putting his hands on me.

The jeans I wore to his house,
I lost them and decided not to look.
They were a reminder of the piece of me he took.

Everything we did, I said "yes" to.
He was the first guy to touch my chest,
I had to force my body to be mine again.

All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.
Traumatized so beautifully.

Boy down the street.
All I wanted was to be wanted,
And he wanted me.

I just wanted to be wanted.
And he wanted my body.
Writing his name feels like a panic attack.