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No one May 11
I miss the way it was always

despite

instead of

because.

I miss the way you tore me apart

and put me back together,

begging.

I miss the way you told me you loved me

after you screamed at me 

to just ******* die.

I miss the way you stroked my cheek

as I trembled in your arms

covered in bruises.

I miss the way your legs covered mine

because I was freezing

in 82 degree weather.

I miss the way you gave me your shirt

after, because you wanted me

to bathe in my own blood.

I miss the way you whispered my name

when you were drunk

and the way your lips felt on my neck

at midnight.

I miss the way you took every part of me

and crushed it into dust

and handed it back to me.

I miss your warmth 

and the way it felt so ******* good

on my body.

I miss the way your rough hands

fit perfectly in mine

and how when you thought I was asleep

you traced each crease in my hand.

I miss the way you demanded;

never asked.

I miss the way you yelled at me;

the way you whispered to me.

I miss the way you embarrassed me

in front of all of your friends

to get a **** reaction.

I miss the way you bit on my lips

until there was blood

and the way your mouth tasted like

coffee and cigarettes.

I miss the way you brushed my hair

out of the way as I sobbed

on your shoulder.

I miss the way you fell asleep on my lap

after a long day

and how you looked so young;

so peaceful.

I miss the way you touched me too harsh.

I miss the way you held me too gentle.

I miss the way you said goodbye

as you slammed my bedroom door

at three in the morning.

I miss the way I woke up in your bed

and you were already gone.

I miss the way you clenched your jaw

when you were frustrated.

I miss the way you sighed 

when you were annoyed.

I hate the way I miss you.

The way my body longs for your touch

and the way my lips hold your name.

The way I can't stop thinking of you

and the way it hurts so much

that I know you don't give me a second thought,

because.

But I also know

that if you ever did think of me

it would be

despite.
No one May 11
The curving branches echo in the caliginosity
Withered roses sit, unattended; forgotten.
My torrid lungs tie a knot with every ***** creating tortuosity
in my mind, making a path I can no longer follow.
Another year passed, and it seems it runs in our family;
started generations before me, yet I refuse to let it swallow.
But you’re making it so ******* hard
because another year passed and I’m sitting in the back of its throat
and if i’m being honest I don’t know if I can walk another yard,
or mile or foot or even another inch.
You’ve made it so hard to want to open my eyes
because my judgment is clouded and it seems everyone is wearing a mask.
It’s hard because every single person I’ve seen has left me here to die.
They locked me in this box and threw out all the keys.
I am so alone, and the parks are so empty
of all but the hollow, rotting trees.'

Each piece of crumbling stone like a billboard
flashing its blurred out cries. An idea of what is to come,
but we don't know how or when, and even if we did none of us could afford
another minute; another moment, no matter how hard we try.
We are sand on the beach, being washed away
with quick waves - sometimes even our own foundations too dry
to carry our weight, yet if we’re soaked we find it hard to shape ourselves
into something new; something we want to be.
I don’t want to drown in the deep end like you.
But I don’t want to lose oxygen in this shallow sea.
I am so afraid of change, because I can barely hold what little I have
How am I supposed to create something new?
Yet I’m terrified of being the same thing forever
because if you take a closer look, you can see right through.
And there are things I have done that I cannot begin to say
There are things I want because of something you gave.
I shiver on the dirt, not from the cold, but because you make my mind play
with every possibility of how I can escape.
I wish it were me, six feet under.
I wish it were me, singing with the stars. The shining lights draped
On the vile sky we call home.
The abandoned ground, empty
of all but the feel of the wind's hands as they roam.

My mother too afraid to come to the terms
that you left us with, with a glass bottle in hand.
She is the fire, and it is her oxygen - the only way she can burn.
She misses that passion like a flower misses her sun.
The liquid magma barely reaches the inside of her throat
and the anger and release fills her veins.
I've been there too, except it was lonely nights below another person.
I was too young to see you were in pain,
but you left me with a mother
who can barely pick herself up after ten pm - who could barely exist.
You left me with a longing for hurt.
You left me with a mind so scarred that I wanted the scars on my wrist;
a mind so damaged I was planning to get under the same dirt.
To me, it was okay to let someone **** me over one too many times.
You left me staring at the same gun that you once held.
Contemplating whether or not to do the very same crime.
Does it make me weak to not pull the trigger?
Ungrateful to not want to be awake?
Selfish to use your death as a way to keep pushing?
Because I am pushing so ******* hard and I am going to break.
I am a rope, and the hand, desperately trying to hold
onto something that cannot possibly hold this weight.
You left me huddled into my knees trying to get rid of the cold
feeling in my lungs that stopped me from breathing.
You left me with sirens blaring, four separate moments.
You left me doubting my own worth
because if your father can't stay with you, who can?
You left me alone in this awaiting grave we call Earth;
And no one stuck around to help or assist.
You left me in this place, empty 
of all but my own pitiful tears and clenched fist.

Yet I place my ******* flowers down on your grave
And I cry harder than last time
Because I can't be saved.
Because it’s been another year without you
and I’m still tucking my mom into her bed,
trying to put both of us back together like glue;
trying to keep all of our corners aligned.
So I fall into a dreamless sleep in this silent house, empty
of all but night’s rest seeping into two broken minds.
No one Apr 20
I've been feeling quite gray;

this feeling of needing to go away.

Waves of darkness floor over me

like blood on the floor, sinking towards the sea.

I feel stuck in loops

and it doesn't help being surrounded in groups

of people that don't even see me

why can't I be happy?

I've worked so ******* hard

to act like I've won with this hand of cards

but I just keep sinking; sinking into this endless void

of being at the top of the world to being destroyed.



I've been feeling quite black,

because maybe I lack

that certain trait that lets other's move on

instead of being stuck in this cycle of feeling disconnected and gone.

Some days I am fine, and the tides are high

And others it feels like my oceans are dry. Why?

Why can't I feel unless it's my blood on the floor?

Everyday tasks are starting to feel like a chore.

And I'm sitting her, basket in hand, watching pelicans soar

in the vast blue sky as I sit on the shore.

But I can't hear their salty calls

and I can't feel the way the ocean's sound make me fall.

And I can't touch the walls of a nearby cave

without wanting the ocean to be my own grave.



I've been feeling quite white.

And not the one where you life is full of light.

The one that is empty and static;

the one where dust builds up in the attic.

I can't feel when I cry, it's just tears running down

like a tsunami flooding an innocent town.

Except the town is known for the blood it sheds

and these voices sing in the night, do they want me dead?

It is a black and vile canvas covered in something pure

Maybe to mask; maybe to lure.

And all that it does is make people drown

With it's lovely songs filling up mind's around.

So like rain, I drip off this forgotten leaf

Or maybe I'm a liar and thief

Maybe all the colors I once had were stolen from an ocean's reef

So I sink into this sea of blood, hoping to find some relief.
No one Apr 12
The silence engulfs me,

the quiet sound that fills the Earth,

An ambient hymn covers each inch of snow

Never noticed, but always there.

All white; devoid of color...

but maybe it's okay to not yearn for green.

The lights in the sky dancing over the sky;

so strong you hear the static crackles within the air.

The stars that go on forever

but seem like they're only yours.

The grass covered in polished quartz,

the moon illuminating it;

making it shine brighter than the stars.

A covered sky, glazing over the stars.

The clouds whisk away the light,

claiming it their own.

Only then to pour over with more soft speckles.

You look up; breathe in the frigid zephyr.

The mountains that tower over you,

threatening to consume you without effort.

They block out the light;

the monoliths create a void,

one that is darker than your mind.
No one Apr 11
Cherry juice drips down my chin;

sticky fingers graze against a cheek,

my hand will not stop shaking anymore.

Juice boxes are scattered around my room.

The sun plays on my twin sized mattress

that I can't seem to get out of.

I assume it's because I have two left feet;

or maybe I haven't been taught how to walk.

Melted crayons on my wall I tried painting over.

Six pairs of socks still don't keep me warm.

My diary remains full of colorful words.

Being devoid of color is replaced with

washable markers, non-toxic glue, and extra fine glitter.

The bubblegum in my mouth is melting.

I think I used too much glow in the dark glue,

because I can't pick them up or feel them,

despite seeing them right in front of me.

Having crying fits over a pack of goldfish

until I fall into deep slumber, drooling on my pillow.

I'm terrified of the dark; I cannot stop screaming,

But it's not the dark where you turn off the light, no.

It's the dark inside my own mind - the loneliness

and being stuck in my brain's room that keeps me up too long.

I can't sing or play with an instrument anymore

because my voice is too shaky and my hands,

my hands are covered in this cherry juice.
  Apr 11 No one
shana
They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love.
"
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone should appreciate."
Appreciation post for myself; for you and for everyone as well. You deserve more than the world has to offer.
No one Apr 11
red



The first color in art.

The beginning of a rainbow;

the color pushed out of your heart.



The color of a husky voice and bare legs.

It fills the mind, washing away doubts

and slowly drips onto innocence like tears on the floor.

It is sweat off an old man's brow; it is calloused hands.



It is the taste of your addicting lips.

It is Maria Brink's voice; it is the way 'fruchtfleisch' sounds.
Red is bold, but soft. It speeds up heartbeats.

Red is the beginning of us.

But red is also seeping out a hollow chest.



orange



A difficult color to understand.

One that means organized in the most chaotic manner.

It is dogs barking and it is the sharp and rocky sand.



Orange is your fingers after staying in the water too long.

Orange is the feeling of relief when you've finished all your work.

It is the drunk man's slurred words,

and it is the toxic smell that exudes out of him.



It is a fresh washed blanket, or a pillow without a cover.

Orange is Gymnopédies, No. 1, Lent et douloureux

or Études, Op. 10: No. 12 in C Minor.
It is a storm washing away the chalk on your driveway.

Orange is watered-down coffee on a Saturday afternoon.

Orange is the start to something more.



yellow



Yellow is a tentative smile and long hair.

It is the sky at 3 in the morning.

It is a hot day in summer, biting into a pear.



Yellow is a young girl wishing on a shooting star.

It is a soft voice, but meaningful words.

Yellow are too-big shoes; it is stepping into a puddle of mud.

Yellow is not knowing where the other sock to the pair is.



Painting thick paint over a canvas,

and listening to the song Paris by 1975.

Yellow is a run-down house by the edge of a forest.

Yellow is alluring, yet revolting. 

Yellow is banana splits and ripe strawberries.



green



Green is communication, or the middle grounds.

It is a peaceful lake near a volcano.

Green is being alive, and is the way fire sounds.



Green is the smell of an old book; it is a book that takes too long to read.

It is the smell of nail polish remover.

Green is red solo cups and red stains over furniture.

It is the warm air before a storm.



Green is singing the note C while someone is singing G.

It is the tingle you feel after putting on mint chapstick.

It is feeling like your melting into someone's arms.

Green brings life, but it is the most deadly thing out there.



blue



Blue is the match burning out too sickly and burning you.

Blue is a cigarette and the ashes of an unsent love letter.

It is your side of the bed being cold; it is having the flu.



Blue are arms pulling me in deeper.

Blue is the smell of candles; it is watering your houseplants.

It is a soft cat's tail rubbing against your face.

It is the giggles and the claws dug into your skin after it gets scared.



Blue is Empty Bed by Cavetown playing on repeat. 

It is running your hand down hair and connecting the constellations on your back.

Blue is two girls sleeping over, but instead of sleeping they're whispering.

Blue is driving your car too fast; you feel free.

Blue is accepting it's okay to be alone. Blue is ****** knuckles.



purple



Purple is home.

Purple is the sound of a crowded street

Or the feeling of the ocean on your feet; the foam.



Purple is the sound your pencil makes on paper

It is the feeling of taking the first bite of a warm cookie.

Purple is the smell of roses; you are purple.

My purple is Hey Jude by the Beatles.



Purple is looking in a mirror; it is open drawers.

Purple is your feet brushing up against mine under the table.

It is your favorite song playing until you can't stand it.

Purple is the last color in a rainbow.

But purple is anything but the end.

Purple is the start to a brand new beginning.
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