Do not hate.
Do not devastate.
Do not discriminate.
Do not pray.
Do not try and escape.
Do not change.
Do not think me strange.

Black blotches dry on the brim of the
Yellow paper.
This pen cannot breathe tonight.
It's tired of your sad love letters.

You have fangs as sharp as your wit.
My Delicate lips tremble at the sight of you,
But not at your aesthetic.
You broke me at seventeen.
Dried me out at twenty-five.
This false idea of you felt rather true.
Like most things, I chose to see my truth.

Tasteless sass filled with dreaded plights of mine.
Pockets full of dried receipts from a time that has died.
I tremble at the thought of you now.
Death wrapped in silk sheets.
That's the death for me.

I stood on a city corner and cried.
I heard a car horn and sighed.
The light turned green at the crosswalk,
but I did no such thing.

This was our city.
Those were our car rides.
I want to blame you and call you names, but I can't.
August' scent is peaceful, just like you were for me.
I made you a God.

The devil in me did that.

Barricade yourself behind sheet thin walls:
you have a lover and his lust.
A velvet rope will suffice.
As delicate as your skin.
As sinful as your tricks on her heart.
You pestilent child.
Your lies as thick as her favorite book.
Lies converge with truth on black nights.
One covers the other.
I could never tell what is what or who is who.
The city stands over you and stares, shamefully.
Those tricks are the work of the devil.
Those sins are perfected by man.
Caress her skin and lie upon her.
Finish what you started.
Every stroke is a lie, a crime, best seen blind.

Hate hides behind motherly kisses.
It festers deep within those gargoyle hisses.
It scabs over, but never truly heals.
The right person can unearth them,
Like time capsule seals.
Daddy, you were sometimes there, but always scared.
My father was a child before, until you became his thorn.
Concrete steps were your way into his heart.
Looking back, that idea wasn't very smart.
Those scabs in the past are left feeling damp.
They never truly heal and I feel like a *****.

You were my poetry.
My tools with which I wrote.
Then you left.
Now you are all the poems I never cared
to finish.