I told the boy with the light hair and the eyes of tears. I told him the consequences of loving me.
I told him that he'd never get enough, because I simply wouldn't give it.
I told him, right before I played with his soft plush lips. I told him that I didn't want anything to do with him. Just this one tango, the only dance I ever learned. When the big guy decided little girls with butterflies in their hair were fun to dance with.
I told him how he'd never forget me. How I'd rob his heart and hold it in a chest.
I told him that I was the girl his mother warned him about. The beautiful brunette with the wild eyes and burning skin. The one who'd steal his heart and never give it back.
And I lay here tonight at 4am and wonder why he never told me about him.
How he never told me I'd think, every waking moment and even some off-stretched dreams, about why he always came back. Or about why he stopped coming.
He never told me that he was the boy my mother warned me about. The blonde with the sad eyes and freezing skin. She warned me to stay away from the dead who were still living, because those boys were trouble.
But you see, my chest, the one that troubled boys heart is held not so carefully in, I loved to dance with the devil, ever since the devil danced with me and changed the butterfly barrettes to molten lipstick I use to steal quiet boys hearts. And wonder why they never return.
I lay here at 5am, next to the big guy with sad eyes and cold skin that likes to dance with daughters and not their mothers, and wonder why the boy never told me the consequences of loving him.

Sometimes at night when I can't fall asleep I think of your creamy skin that shone in the moonlight that summer night. I think of how the sun would hide in your presence because it was never bright compared to you, and I think about how the moon was the one that loved you because not only did it commerce with the dark but the light too. I think of the dark black of your hair when my greedy fingers would dance with it, so dark it always reminded me of the burnt cookies my grandma used to make, the ones you used to eat and tell me stories of adventures we'd take when we were older and rich. I think of how your smile would thaw the broken words that my father had yelled at me earlier in the day and replace them with words so sweet they could make cookie dough, like the one we tried to make that day at your mothers house because she slept in and we were left in the kitchen alone all afternoon with nothing but cookie dough that decorated us instead of the cookie sheet. I think of the day at the beach when you said cookies is to cream what you are to me and I remember thinking that cookies are to cream what your hair is to your skin and it made sense because you were always such a perfect paradox that even foods were named after you. And when those moments of drunken weaknesses end, I think of how dark your skin seemed when I only saw the back of it and knew it was the last of it I would ever see. And I never wondered why I suddenly hated my favorite ice cream shop that we used to go to on Sunday nights back when you didn't say you hated me and I didn't have a reason to believe you.

I can feel the darkness slipping under my skin again. And I almost feel drained. I did everything I could. Everything to stay good. To stay okay. Everything and it wasn't enough. What if it's never enough.

You don't get it. You don't get that I have to cry myself to sleep only to scream my way from a nightmare. You don't get that I look in the mirror and curse the image. You don't get that whenever someone calls me smart or pretty I twist a knife into my dark soul for deceiving them. You don't get that I walk around with the weight of the knifes  plunged into my back from people I was supposed to trust. You don't get that the only reason the knives are in my back is because I'm unworthy of love, but keep trying to find some resemblance of it. You don't get that deep down I have this urge to find someone to love me even though I know someone never will. You don't get how ugly I am inside. You don't get how DARK it is inside. So don't you dare begin to "judge" me without getting me.

My breast swelled and I feared the lump in my heart that melted whenever he was around

My stomach clenched and I feared the desire that pooled there whenever he came too close

My swollen lips curved and I feared my deep reaction of need whenever he smiled

My skin burned and I feared the moan that escaped my lips whenever he touched

My eyes were tired and I feared how much I had to watch him sleep whenever he turned my way

My eyes opened and all my fears became reality when he was no longer there

My lost tore through me and I feared that I would remember the blood on the couch whenever I thought of him

Why can't we all just get along? Life would be easier if everyone you saw could make you smile. I just don't understand why people don't like other people, just because they are them... Why do they have to hate instead of encouraging and loving? Why does everything have to be so fricking hard when it could be easy... Humans as a whole don't appreciate anything. We trash our lands, we mistreat animals, we hurt our own kind, we hurt people who don't look the same JUST because they don't look the same... It's sooo ridiculous. I don't understand it. And if someone isn't the perfect "model type" we want to put them down and take away their worth. THEY ARE WORTH SO MUCH! We can't even respect ourselves enough to love everyone... And why? Because we feel bad about ourselves we have to make others feel worse? The concept of "misery loves company" is embedded in humans today, and it shouldn't be. We should all be soooo happy that when people look at us they become happy as well. Just imagine if everyone was happy in the world. The less fortunate as well as the extremely wealthy... When I close my eyes I try so hard to dream of a better life, a better world. And when I open them again, it's the memory of that dream that keeps me going. It just makes me so, so, eminently sad that not a lot of people dream that dream.

I will fall in love with you tonight.
I will
Fall
In love, with you tonight...
I will, fall in love with you tonight.
It ain't the right kind of love.
Oh it ain't...
The right. Kind of love.  
It ain't the right kind. Of love.
It ain't the right kind of, love.

My demons are what make me. So don't fall for my smile, its far uglier when you know the reason for it. Don't fall for my eyes, you'd go insane learning what they hide. And don't fall for my lips, they'll poison you with bitter coffee and evil words. And please, I beg of you, do not fall for me, because my demons will strip you of  your joy and turn you into the monster that I am, pierced with shards from a broken heart and toxic thoughts of self harm. My demons are what make me, but please, please do not fall, blindfolded by my 'beauty', and let them make you.

You told me a story about a fantasy land. You told me that the fantasy land had unique people who drunk away their sorrows all day and wrote art all night. You told me about how each day the people of the fantasy land bones would creak and they would laugh until it didn't hurt any longer. You whispered in my ear a promise that one day, when we were hurting enough, we'd visit the fantasy land of the blissfully forgotten. I sit here staring out at the water that never ripples and think of how somehow I made it to the land of drunken unicorns and decaying bones and forgotten souls and you didn't. And then I understood, I'm here because you forgot me, and you're not because I cannot forget you.

Take me back to the white house in the forest. The one that always had the birds sitting on the porch to listen to the melody of your voice. The one that the failing sun always shown brighter on to try and beat your smile. The one where your eyes where the only thing that sparkled. And then I remember that the weeds have grown tall and the sun decided not to shine there anymore. I remember that the paint has chipped and along with it the bird feathers that used to float around. I remember that if I went back to that white house in the forest I'd find nothing but broken promises that you forgot we made. So take me back in time to that white house that your smell attracted the squirrels and, of course, me. Because if I don't go back in time, I'll be surrounded by nothing but the thought of how even the air stopped moving that night when the white house was a smoky blue and your words stabbed knives in my back with each syllable. I'll be surrounded with the reminder that you've left and so did my heart.

Whenever a plane flies over my house it sounds like it's going to crash. Like the wings are too broken and can no longer carry the weight of the clouds that weren't supposed to be heavy. And whenever a plane flies over my house it sounds like your shouts that night. Like your heart was too broken and could no longer carry the weight of loving the quiet girl who didn't look depressed. And whenever I hear those stupid planes I feel the unwelcome pang of guilt that I ever told you of the thoughts that went on in my head, I can remember the stormy day that I told you, I remember because no planes flew over my house and it was because my plane of truth was crashing that day. The imaginary wings my mind created were too broken and could no longer carry the weight of being the pretty girl who kept everything to herself because she was so ****** up that nobody could bear to hear without crashing and I'm so sorry that I made you crash because you crashed on the island and died instead of in the ocean that I crashed in yet couldn't drown in. And your plane crash is a wave that crashes over me, yet doesn't **** me, every time a stupid plane flies over my house.

I knew the story of the quote, "they belong to The Bridge," before I stepped onto its slippery *****. Onlt the brave people spoke of it, and even they said it's name as if it were a curse. The Bridge was there for as long as people could remember, some remember it more than others. I stepped onto The Bridge to endure its wrath. I couldn't see because it was dark around me, the towns folk who weren't scared to go into details whispered stories of how the outside vision is a representation of the inside quietus. The Bridge was a short cut over the vast oceans. I began to slowly move forward. Because slow is the only way to move on The Bridge. I'd heard shuddering stories of The Bridge and how it'd torn families apart and yet it didn't stop me from reaching the path. As I moved on I remembered all the stories of the people who weren't brave enough to finish walking The Bridge and jumped off the sides into the raging waters, some found their way back while others weren't capable. And as I take my final footfall before I step off of The Bridge I can't stop myself from thinking, am I being brave or scared?

The sunset reflected on the water and I stared at the dark ripples of the wave and thought about how much I was like that reflection. I seem to be beautiful and wild and indigenous, but if you look closely at how I reflect into the world, their are ripples of emotion that drown out the 'image' of me and is replaced with the dark me, the true me, that doesn't smile and doesn't sleep at night and can't wait for the sun to set and the reflection to be put to rest.

I always loved the smell of pound cake in the morning. Of the sweet smell of a mothers love to her broken child. I always loved to look at its fluffy surface and touch it's soft physique. And maybe that's why I loved you, because you smelled of the rarest sweets and your skin was so soft and inviting. Your smile outshone the sun and your lips were sweet to taste with mine. But maybe that's why you left, because I never knew how to eat that pound cake and soon the smell would be gone and the rest of the world with any smarts at all were the ones who ate it. Maybe that's why you left, because I was too scared of losing you to love you. And now another eats from you, nibbles from your soft physique and sleeps to the aroma that is you. And I sit up at night with the thought of the pound cake that I never got to taste.

She wished that maybe one day she wouldn't be a failure anymore but she knew that wishes and dreams were for the good people in life, and that's why hers never came true.