What is Love really?
Is it really affection?
Or an obsession?
The line is blurred

When you love someone
So madly
That you lose yourself
Is that love?

Constantly thinking, analyzing,
Obsessing
Every detail of a relationship
Is that out of affection?

The pain in your chest
Thinking about them with someone else
Is that jealousy because of affection?
I am not convinced

I’m sorry.

When you find her

She’ll probably tell you all the awful things I’ve done
.
How I stood her in front of a mirror and pointed out everything I hated.

Down to the last atom of her existence.

How I whispered to her every night before she slept that she was unwanted. unloveable. unnecessary. 

How I gave her heart to men I knew would break it.

How I laid her body down for men who made her confuse lust as love.

But knowing her, she won’t tell you any of this.

She’ll hide her stories. 

She won’t show you her scars.

She’ll keep it to herself, locked away in the darkest corner of herself.
This is the place she will visit often.

A place with no windows and one door.
Her palace of pain—
I tricked her into thinking that’s what a home is.

I taught her how to smile too.

To spread her lips wide, so her cheeks pushed her eyes into half-moons. 

Half-lidded truths but full lipped lies.

I taught her how to listen.

Her ears are sharp, cutting your words down to the quick.

She’s searching for the goodbye she thinks is hidden in your words.
She’ll be quiet often, but even though her lips are still, her thoughts are running lightyears in her head.

Most of those thoughts will be about you.

But she’s not thinking about how much you love her.

She’s thinking about how much she loves you and calculating how much that love will hurt her.

Love is an enduring pain and she doesn’t believe it can be anything else.

I did this.

I made her this way.

But these were the lessons that were taught to me. 

I did not have kind teachers, so how could I be nothing but cruel to her?
—A poor apology from myself to You

I will dream in technicolor failures!
I will pass time waiting on the lawn.
Bored and vapid and given pause to yawn.
I'll send my hopes in colored mailers.
Drowned in nostalgia and memory,
another 30-30 something casualty.
And together we chase the white picket,
acid washed American dream.
And with loaded backroom schemes
we seek to find and punch the given ticket.

Where there was two we invite three.
He'll have ten fingers and ten toes.
Wide masculine shouldered and elbows.
He'll be, I hope, a lot you and a very little me.
He'll have a chance, ******* it, he will.
He'll be alive and screaming and needing.
His mind and body young and always feeding
He will draw from this earth until his fill.

I hope for so much more than I have got.
We take on water so fast without balers.
I dream of tomorrow in technicolor failures.
Help me, love. I'm twisted into a knot.
I need so badly to understand these things we do.
Our rings and our tiny king's teething rings.
I need to be kind and true and bold.
I need so badly to have and to hold
him and you.

We left him so little and wished him so much.
Isn't it a sad twist of fate?
Isn't it just something you love to hate?
Ruins where buildings should be. Nice touch.

Being suicidal when you’re really young is so sad and weird because you stop seeing yourself in the future, you can’t even imagine what you could possibly be doing in a year from now, sometimes a month and each day you're wondering if today is the day, the day you have enough courage to do it, or if someone will handle it for you. You're walking down the street and a speeding car is coming, you don't move, you hope it hits you. You lose hope, it makes it harder for you to get better, or believe that it ever will. You start to live as if you're dead already..

even the benevolent breeze,
spares the scattered ashes,
of what was once an asylum
for flesh and bones trapped
within wandering souls,

they told me in school
that red and green fuses to yellow
but all I can see and smell are dark ashes,
the remains of the magnificent tree,

the birds have nowhere to go now,
the dogs are dying of heat,
and I can't write poems now,
for I was a patient of that asylum

it caressed my sanity every evening
my poems have nowhere to go,
they don't hide in the branches now,
they hide within me,
and I hide inside them.

What do you think the clown would say
When you took his frown, and wore it your way

What do you think he’d do if he knew
That his sadness was the mirror
Image of you

What would he say when you stole his suit
Knowing you could be a perfect  substitute

What would happen if you both became one
Shadows like twins
The darkness had won

What if you both
could change your lives
And live in reality
No need for the disguise

I think you’d be happy
Reflection a smile
Make up vanished
It’s been a long while

i listen to songs that were once ours;
maybe they'll lose their meanings
if i play them for hours.
shuffle, pause, play, repeat,
save me from this misery by memory;
yet i show signs of masochism,
opening wounds then rubbing salt,
unknowingly singing these songs
     in thought of you.

Oh, memory strike
down my waning pride,
and like the visceral
oceans in the sky,
fall each dawn as dew,
and surge each paling dusk,
pour like torrents
of monsoons \ hurricanes.
Serve only as a reminder
of the wars I've lost, and
the battles I've just begun.