I hope your love for me is like  
Early morning coffee.
And I am your favorite mug
When you take me out of the cabinet
Pour into me your energy and motivation
All the things that make you smile when you are tired
Will you set me down gently then
Wait for me to cool off
And kiss me slowly with a smile
Sipping the sleep out of your eyes
Walk me around your house
Careful with the handle.
Looking down at the floor
Make sure all that’s burning up inside me
Stays below the surface and
Doesn’t jump out to burn your toes
You wouldn’t care if it did though
You just wouldn’t want parts of me
That you love so much to be wasted outside
Your favorite mug.

I want to touch you
All of you
From the bend in your toes
To the crook in your nose
I crave the feeling of your not-quite-straight teeth
the underneath of your chin
Where your stubble begins
Your usually chapped lips
Pressed upon mine
The feeling of the bumps of your spine
Would probably give me chills
And thrills
To feel your fingers through my hair
I can't bare
To think of you away from me
Don't you see?
We're meant to be.
we fit perfectly together
And I'm sure we can weather
Any storm
I was born and bound
To love you
The hounds of Hell
Are ******* my heels
This feels like damnation
Not salvation
Being in love is not beautiful
Having shared love is
I'm in the business
Of having the first
But not the latter
This ladder that I climb
Is falling apart
And I'm falling down
Falling
Into the ground
So for awhile
I'll
Be bitter
But one day I'll be better

Lipstick isn't the only thing that stains anymore.

Stubborn eyeliner has marked last nights man.

Tomorrow brings another day, but the same routine

and a different greedy look as she walks to the corner.

theres not enough water to wash away her diseases, dear.

Just a pest, a rat scattering the streets

with nothing more than a cigarette and greed in her hand.

Stumble, filth. stumble, stumble stumble *****.

Shes the highest range of STI distribution.

I say, she deserves a lukewarm meal.

Dear Micah,

I sometimes feel you in hallways and
the sunlight between the blinds.

Motionless or watching
But silent
As I hesitate

And the space in the room is filling suddenly with only you
(a lot like your laughter , now floating on  wings of insects)
waiting for my next letter;
to mold words I can only feel through foreign entities
plagued with silence and melodies you used to know.
Now dying with you.

There are a thousand ways to say I miss you,
Im too sad to write even one.

motionless pull up and drag
sick leans on my bones and up through them,
I look at something else and see death

sitting plainly
not even twenty feet away
quietly seeing back at me,
seeing only black and feeling only what I feel

you’re next to me and a minute later you see it too
and as with you, you see it as something else
you get up, “let me show you that.”
stride, as you do, to its side and as if it were truly a thing,
pick it up
stride back to me and turn it over and over in your hands
and I am shuddering in your affections
my clear reproaching eyes
are adoring you

oh, solemn and before I can think again
I am moving away and seeing in reverse the things I saw when
I was about to see you
the sky is opening up for me
I am flying with the sun
but you’re fading out,
sleeping radio static
becoming still
and I am finding it difficult to remain in motion

I have to say I absolutely love art
The art which feeds from my inspirations
My inspirations which feed from the art based from my core obsession

Although I’m not sure if this is my real obsession

What if it’s an obsession within another?
Or an addiction concealed behind obsession?
How much more burdensome can these be
Will it grow past this point
The point where it’s all I love yet all I fear?

How am I supposed to say that I love my body?
How am I supposed to raise a normal self-esteem
And gain respect for myself When
I hate what I see?

And can you even say it’s wrong for me to hate it?
How is it wrong to hate what stares at me from the mirror?
How is it wrong to hate the smooth and pale skin?
The hairless exposure
The hint of bones in my figure

They say that is supposed to be beautiful don’t they?



I have to say I absolutely love what’s in my future
The future which feeds from my inspirations
My inspirations which feed from the future idea of my own self

Although I cannot be sure this will be the real me

What if this future is just a dream?
Or a wish concealed behind a dream?
How much more dangerous can these be?
Will it grow past this point?
This point where this future feeds off of me?

How am I supposed to say I don’t want this?
How am I supposed to hold my esteem at a healthy level
And also be so absorbed when
I know better than to do this

And how can I even think its wrong for me to hate it
How is it wrong to hate the ghost in my mirror?
How is it wrong to hate the sculpted and carved skin
The meatless disclosure
The manifested fissure

They say that is supposed to be beautiful don’t they?

I forgot the true meaning of acceptance


and what's worse,
is that after I decided how ironic
and sad it was,


I wondered how difficult it must be
for all my friends to stay by my side.

I want to live my life backwards,
so that the things that I say will come out right.
I've been spending my time sober in a place that doesn't exist,
and in the end I forgot everything because I was blind(ed).

I'm glad he remembered how good of a kisser I was,
because I didn't forget how good he was either.
He asked me why my hands were so cold
and I said the feeling must have seeped from my heart.

The night went on, we acted like cousins.
It was bitter, but I sat and waited for it to taste good.
His hand was clenched with a fist full of my hair.
We were silent. I felt comfort in his grasp.

We walked, our legs untangled and silent,
the sparkles in the street made the breeze control my heart,
and my legs screamed, burning for more,
begging for closeness, yearning for someone else's skin.

I tried to explain how I felt, but things always come out like pearl laced clouds,
and I don't want my pain to be beautiful,
because that somehow makes it okay.
At one point you realize that it's easier if you just stop caring.

She talks like she knows a leprechaun
that blows bubbles
and cuts his toe nails in the cheese
whenever you leave the
refrigerator closed long enough.

He talks like he wants to know what she's thinking
but the sounds that come out are from a bad relationship
that she's over and he tries to paint it in the air
but the trails are more like explosions and
his hair is too clean for it to be his.


She looks like wet pictures on the roof
held by at least four inches of melting snow
that she can't touch with her bare skin
because she knows how easily things can change.

He looks like he wants to kiss her
but he knows it will ruin her lip stick.