i made you
turn the doorknob for me
me
me with hands full of squishy pumpkin guts
wash them clean to get them messy
again
sculpting a friendship out of a fractured romance
you, with your broken shovel still planted in my backyard
sliding your hands over me, no friction
like a pool stick in between our chalky fingers
the thunder of knocking down bowling pins
sounds like atom bombs in an empty arcade room

how dare you

"I love you"
"I Hate you"
Really though they are the same
The more you HATE
The more you show how much you care
The more you LOVE
The more you're open to despair
"I love you..."
"I love you...."
"I LOVE YOU....."
Like I'm pleading for you to need me
Like I need you to want me
Your attention is all I want
Your touch is all I need
I scream in my own head over & over
And it's so good!
Until
I can't take this anymore
Until
Maybe I don't want you to need me
Until
Please stop touching me
Until
Why are we still doing this
Until
"I hate you"
EVERY thing about you makes me mad
Your hair
Your eyes
The way you speak like you KNOW everything
News flash
You don't
"I hate you"
The way you walk
The soft skin you have
The way you held me
"I hate you"
That you made me feel
That you left
That you're not here
"I HATE YOU"
Not just Because loving you got So hard
But because
Hating you made me realize
How much 'I still love you"

when we fall
we fall hard
tearing down stars
crashing through skies
grinding out craters with our feet
churning  through oceans
smashing mountains
blasting out deserts
running rivers dry
shifting poles
resetting orbits
disintegrating ourselves
with a passion that destroys worlds
and births galaxies from our dust

@journeyofdays

you reach in with your
grabbing fingers and
rip
fiber by fiber tear
it out sever
every last bit of
my ******* ******* heart

take it take it take it take it it
was always yours

i. I've never really believed
those people
that say we are made
of stardust. but the
constellation
of bite marks
you left across my chest
might just change my
mind.

ii. I'm glad a shower
is on my plan, because
instead of me
I smell like you. and don't get
me wrong, I love
the way you smell
but it might drive me
insane
with longing.

iii. being the one to leave
in a way
is easier. but please
don't think walking away from you
doesn't break me
a bit
every time.

my love fits in
to the crook of my neck
and the palm of my hand
and the curve of my back

my love fits in
to all of my thoughts
and most of my words
and some of my days

and my love knows when
to hold me tight
and grasp me hard
and kiss me soft.

*(there is no point.
there is no punch.
there is just this.
there is just love)

I love you. This is an incontestable fact. You talk about how you want a real, strong connection with me, one where we talk a lot and are involved in each others lives, and I want to cry. Because I never thought I would hear you say that so bluntly, because I didn't think I was that important to you, because as capable as I am of giving and receiving love from so many people, you will always be special. I absolutely believe there are people we meet that are meant for us. As best friends, as guardians, as lovers, as the homes we build. I don't know which you are yet. I know what I want you to be- I can hardly see past what I want you to be, when half of my heart is still jagged and sobbing and in your unknowing hands. But I love you enough that if you would have me as a friend, I would smile a smile of porcelain shards that look like perfect white teeth to make you happy. I would dance the dance I've learned of the masks, letting you see my face but not enough to see me. I would sit next to you, and you would be the sweetest, sharpest thing my heart could hold, and I would hold you all the same.
Because I love you. That is my incontestable fact.

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

I want to **** myself.
Why?
Because
I
Want
To
LIVE!