Why is it that I go to sleep feeling lonely
But wake up to one hundred texts
People don't want me during the day time
But in the night I'm apparently a godsend

The 2 A.M. "what're you up to"?
Surely I know what that means
What you really want to know
Is if I'll satisfy your needs

When you're just a pretty face
No one cares what's on the inside
I'm the girl whom your mind jumps to
When all you want is a good time

I may not be everyone's cup of tea
But surely I'm their ninth shot of liquor
Brought up over drunken conversation
You all say "yeah, I'd stick her"

It doesn't matter what I say
It's not as if I have a choice
In this world of simple pleasures
I'm viewed as a body without a voice

Day 1: I want to tear my skin off. My heart is beating so fast i can barley breathe. I feel so filthy.
Day 2: I can't believe this. I don't want to be here. Why did this happen? Why did I let this happen?
Day 5: I guess I drank too much and my friends were to drunk to stop me.
Day 10: I can't face my friends, I can't live my life.
Week 3: No one knows. He hasn't said a word.
Week 6: It happened again, I was sleeping and he did it again. Why did I stay the night? Why didn't I go straight home?
Week 7: He left and kissed me goodbye. I don't know how to feel.
Week 10: My life's out of control, I can't believe whats happening.
Month 5: My boyfriend knows. But not all details. Just thinking about it, makes me want to take a shower.
Month 8: I finally came clean to my friends. They're appalled. They hate him now. I still feel filthy. I can't get his smell off my body still.
Month 11: The anniversary is soon. What am I going to do?
Year 1: I haven't spoken to him in months. I haven't thought about it in days. I still feel as if hes on top of me, why can't I wash him away?

Its an uphill battle with myself and others. Some days I can't get out of bed or even feel like breathing.
But I try not to let him get to me. Because if he sees my weakness from what hes done,
He's won.

Parallel we run our course
Only difference in choice
You may say it is the scenery
Or how you see
When in the midst of knowing
We know nothing and all

She's very much alive
But she is dead to me
The decision wasn't mine
She wanted to be
A tombstone in my mind
A grave inside my heart
A perpetual funeral
That has no end or start
There is no wreath to set
No flowers to lay
The only place that this exists
Is buried in my wake

You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.

Words find their way.
Hearts speak through fingers.
Reading eyes are mirrored in
Ink systematically spilled in
The shape of sounds
And minds.

A pen resting on the table is a
Flatline.
A blank piece of paper merely
Dead, compressed wood.
Don't deny us your genius.
There is no try in poetry.