You are cancer cells and
Broken bones and
Shards of glass and
A burnt down home, you
Drowned me out so I couldn't breathe, you
Pulled the rug from right under me, but
I found a life raft out at sea and
Saved myself from everything

You were a wave of cancer cells and broken bones that came crashing on me. I finally got my head up and I'm floating on.

I wonder what it would be like to not leave a note
And have you piece me together
And if I could watch you do it I wonder what you would say
Would you paint me in warm colors, always happy, always caring, never selfish?
Or would you speak to me in hatred through the thin fabric of life and death that we so willfully hang upon
Would those selfish emotions absorb you like they did me
Would you hate me more than I hate myself
Because you loved me for you or because you loved me for me
I don't know if either is better

I'm not always happy, I don't always care, and I am selfish
You don't know me, I don’t think you ever will
And I don't want you to, I am evil
I am cynical, I am angry, I am the opposite of empathy
And I think under all that ******* you are too

Maybe it'd be a good lesson for you to see me drift into a quantum fluff
And become all the blips that crowd your radar with existential superstition
And I hope that it's quick, I don't want to see anything flash in front of my eyes
I do not want to see my life pass me by
I don't even want to say goodbye
I just want to be.. No thing.

I’ve been conditioned
like freshly washed hair
for years
do not offend
unless the end of the sentence is “I’m sorry”
let the shoes and boots and heels of many make indents on you
like blueprints of demurity swaddled in insecurity
kept alive by the blurry ideas i once held about femininity
because i couldn't be a girl if the words that flew from my chords
were anything but rosy
ring around the rosie,
pockets full of suppose he was to compliment your ****
when walking down a thorough-fair
busy people back and forth and grandmas with wrinkled sweaters
thank you
muttered from chapped lips and an even more chapped psyche
why must i keep my wits about to not risk making him angry
that was not complimentary but i am fearful he might spit my words back onto me
in the form of fists and slurs and honestly
im tired
of being the sidewalk beneath the feet of creeps
i am the sky and the trees and the moon
but i do not speak with the wisdom of travelling seeds
i speak with the warmth and subtlty of freshly microwaved milk
like soft silk i wish i could tatter
i wish venom soaked words could be spit in response to your “compliments”
but i would rather let you diminish me for the few moments it takes to objectify me
than to risk angering your inner beast and suffering the consequences of meninism or masculinism
whatever the word is this week
i will not be another number
ink soaked paper red with the monthly bloodshed of the sisters
every second is another unspeakable act
i see women
with tongues as round and large as planets
and tonsils the size of solar systems
birthing new galaxies in the words they speak
and shooting comets like fiery ***** of comebacks
when that slack-jawed fool sat and wished and drooled
into his monthly issue of mens rights magazine
she tore down the even minuscule belief he could have had that he had the right to comment on her body
in three seconds his pride, and entitlement
shifted into shame
and embarrassment
and i envy these women
because the only time i can take back my power
is when i am standing in front of a room
speaking rhymes and metaphors preaching independence and strength
to a group of people who now think i am a hero
i am not a hero
i put my shoes on one foot at a time
and i still manage to forget a couple days of birth control here and there
and i cant stand up for myself
in the moments after an attack i retreat into my latte and pray today will not be the day the male dominated society takes my power away
because i am small
and though i am growing every day
i still can only pray
that one way or another
i will be able to be as strong a woman as my sisters
my mother
and take back my power
and speak not with the beauty of a flower
but with the sharpness of a bumblebees sting
and one more thing
your compliments
are not complimentary

i am
a weeping willow
a weeping widow

I know these winter days get you down,
and they make you feel cold.
Just remember that loving you,
and being loved by you,
will always be the warmest feeling I’ll ever have.

I used to think that you were the right person at the wrong time. Now that I’ve had more time to think about, you were the wrong person and the right time.

Because in the fragile state I was in, you taught me that I wasn’t enough.

But after a while I realized that I had to learn that you could be in love with someone and they will still take you for granted.

I had to learn those lessons before I could learn to love myself.

Flowers are characterized by their petals,
A rose, however, is more than just it’s red petals.
Once the petals are removed from a rose,
destroying it’s outer shell,
the inside is visible to world
The rose is vulnerable,
But it is still beautiful
A new array of green and yellow colors
Thee only way to see what lies beneath is to destroy the petals.
The rose is much like a person
People put on masks
A person can become vulnerable and shed their mask. This sometimes destroys a person
Roses can’t grow their petals back once they have all been plucked off
A person can always recover
A rose cannot do anything but perish.
People are like roses, and roses are what people become if they don’t want to be built back up.

i have polaroid’s on my wall

of all the boys i used to kiss.

there are ***** dishes in the sink 
and i think this will be the year that

i pretend to love people just because

there’s nothing else to do.

i spend my time reading poems about girls

who have broken hearts and smoke cigarettes.

i spend my time reading poems about girls 

who rip their ribcage open just to find out

that there is nothing left inside except 
empty beer bottles.

i get drunk and slip into silk 
and realize that i am a combination of

1/3 love and 2/3 champagne bubbles

and i think to myself,

"maybe this is what it’s like to be 
the hurricane instead of the rain."

I'm absolutely terrified.
Petrified.
Mortified.
Of falling in love with you.

Love, you told me once that
Butterflies don’t lie
So I knew I was in love
The moment I met your eyes

Love, you told me once that
You can’t solve all my problems
But I knew you were fibbing because
Standing next to you, the hurt is forgotten

Love, you told me once that
You want my arms around you
But I knew you were just kidding because
You were gone before I could hold you

Love, you told me once that
You don’t always think when you talk
So I knew you didn’t want me,
Yet I still sold you my heart.

Love, I’ll tell you once that
I love you so **** much.
Love, I’ll tell you twice,
Three or four times if you want.

Beloved, while you’re out searching for your only,
I am here waiting, hurting, cowering, crying and lonely.
There’s a monster under my bed, a devil in my closet,
A goblin sending me through an obstacle course, promising
That if I do all they ask I will make it out alright.
Beloved, I know that they are only telling lies.

Beloved, they’re begging for my secrets,
They want to know why I fell for you so easily, so willingly,
When we all know it’s something so unlike me.
And while they crawled under my skin and broke my will down
Like a tower of blocks, all I longed for was you by my side.
Beloved, I’ve never been so frightened in my life.

Beloved, your shadow won’t do much good here,
But if it’s all I can have of you right now, then I’ll hold it here.
It won’t ward off the monsters, the devils, the demons, or the goblins
And their terrifying ways, but if I hold it close enough to me
I can feel your heartbeat, your breath and lips across my face and I’m okay.
Beloved, I will fight till the death and make myself okay.

Your heart is the same shape and size
as a fist
But don’t use it like one
because hearts
they aren’t metaphors like a fist
they cannot be healed with stitches and a band-aid
The ability to touch does not mean the ability to feel
and waiting for your heart to heal
it’s a hell of a lot more than antiseptic
My fury for you
I threw some punches
I tried to break open that prison that holds your heart captive
but I guess my voice just wasn’t the right frequency because it’s still in tact
and yes,
when the world went quiet for a moment
I could hear the gears of the universe turning inside of you and I loved the sound of it
but that’s my fault
You told me I was too young and I don’t see the way that the real world works
and that’s because I view the world in metaphors but life
is not poetry
I knew the woman at the beauty supply store had never had her heart broken
when she kicked me out of the hair isle for slathering shampoo on my chest
because I was hoping the suds would seep in through my skin and
find their way to my heart
The label on the bottle read anti-breakage
I just couldn’t resist to try
The librarian was confused when I returned the dictionary that smelled like peroxide and was covered in band-aids
Maybe she had never been hurt by words or maybe
life is not poetry
I told you that kissing you was like waking up right before seeing the sun rise
after the apocalypse
You didn’t understand
I told you that I wanted to string the stars from your bedroom ceiling so you would always have something to count on and again you didn’t understand
I told you my heart was a quilt of mixed-matched fabric with flaws and failures crudely sewn together with good intentions
You still didn’t understand even though our internal wounds are stitched up using the same thread
Because life is not poetry
Life is real and I am so **** good at letting people love me
it scared me to see my joy sitting in your hands
slipping through the creases of your fingers like sand
I stopped saying your name when it started sounding real to me
So I guess this is how it ends
With the realization that I could shatter and leave my broken pieces under your pillow
and you still would not dream of me
So don’t
use your heart like a fist
because life is not poetry
I am not a metaphor
I’m not a phrase
an expression or an exclamation
I’m not a simile and I’m certainly not a hyperbole
But I’d rather have ink on my hands than blood

You are too old for your looks, dear gentleman
Dear gentleman, you are much too spry
You jump like a wallaby, dear gentleman
And you run much faster than I

When I am snoozing, dear gentleman
You wake me up,
Because you’re hungry for food
Dear gentleman, I was sleeping
I find this, at times, very rude

Dear gentleman, you don’t go outdoors very much
You always stay inside
Watching the birds taunting you
This really must hurt your pride

When I leave the house, dear gentleman
You stay standing guard
Dear gentleman, I must praise you
For this job must be very hard

Dear gentleman, you don’t speak English
You speak some foreign tongue
I cannot understand you, dear gentleman
I can’t decode the songs you’ve sung

Dear gentleman, I must thank you
For you a such a good friend
You and I, dear gentleman
What a pleasant blend!

I told myself,

I’d never let another 

make me feel again. 

Because it seems every beginning

seems to have an end. 

But then you came along–

my heart started to sing a song.

When in your presence,

I try to act nonchalant-

I try to play pretend,

because I promised myself–

I would never let another in.

But deep within,

you have my heart beating.

you’ve become my muse–

you have my pen heaving.

You give the word love, 

a new meaning-
a true meaning.

Paradise is
buried in your arms,
dancing on your lips,
shining in your eyes.

Serenity is
laced in your voice,
tangled in your hair,
lingering in your touch.

Sanity can’t be found
in the wires of my head,
the depths of my soul,
or the blood in my veins.

Safety is
the space between your fingers,
underneath your stare,
sparkling in your smile.

Unnoticed is⎯
Plainness is⎯
Helplessly in love is
in my reflection.

I am a fraction;
a small shard of
something you adore. Even
after all the times you tore me
into bits, left me for dead,
I still come crawling, lovesick,
back to you. I silently beg for
your attention, love, touch, ever-
pure affections. Even after all
the times you broke me,
left me empty, I still come
crawling back to you. Come
to float in a dark sea of name-
less faces and become a shard
of the mirror that stares back
at you with adoration glowing
in its curious eyes. When I am
a piece of something, something
that means the world to you, it
suddenly doesn’t matter how
many times you’ve shattered me
or ripped me in two. Even after
every time you implied I’ll never
be exactly the girl of your big,
dizzy, starlet-laced dreams,
I come crawling back to you
so I can set myself up for falling
in love with the very person who
neglects me best and cares the
least for me. So I can set myself
up for falling back in love with
you.

I’d move the mountains that stand between us
To see you again and call you names
Tell you I hate you
And that you’re so mean

Just to hear you laugh and see you grin
While kicking the sand beneath your feet
And hear you tell me that I’m wrong
Even though I already knew I was

When I’m around you
Nice things don’t come easy
I’m better at insults and mean-sounding things
It’s a secret that I’m falling hopelessly

I can wish death upon you with a snap of the fingers
But then, in my head, take it back
I don’t know what’s the matter with me
I’ve never been this tongue-tied

I’d run the rivers the separate us
To see you again and ignore you mercilessly
I thought it was the boys who make fun
When they have a crush, but I already knew I was wrong

I cross my fingers and look at that star way up in the sky
I hope someone talks me out of this
I’ve denied and rejected and resented change
And this is no exception

Not even the sweetest thing on the east coast

I don’t get to write sad poetry anymore
Not when you nested between my ribs like a second heart,
beating an orchestra,
a whole concerto against my skin.
There’s gentle fingers on my scraped knees,
they don’t feel so painful anymore.

you remind me that

there is still some beauty left

in this world of mine

Dear three year old me
It isn’t that your daddy doesn’t want you, he just wants to drink more
This is not your fault, and it is not your mom’s fault either
Your daddy will regret his priorities someday, rest assured.

Dear ten year old me
Mom's new boyfriend doesn't have a bad side, quit waiting for him to leave
He is not going to
He loves you and this family

Dear fifteen year old me
When your boyfriend screams at you for the first time, get out of there
He is lying every time he says “I love you”
Do not stay with him, it will not get better

Dear eighteen year old me
Love is not found on the couches of cigarette stained strangers
He only wants one thing and you know it
You're better than this

Dear twenty year old me
We’ve really been through it this year huh?
All those little worries from your earlier years seem so irrelevant now

Dear twenty five year old me
I hope we make it

I never wrote grocery lists or dates and things
I never wrote my songs on paper, or memories
I just didn’t need to
Until I met you

While in a coffee shop I would have a surprise conversation
With a homeless man from Peru, or a security guard from Miami
And after every encounter I would pull out my phone
And write about the humor of it, the pain in it, or the realization from it


I wrote down the details so at the end of the day I could tell you the stories

After you left I still wrote down the stories because I wanted to be ready for when you came back
But when it became clear that you weren't, I stopped taking notes
And so every story is tucked away in my mind, forgotten
And now the only story that lingers is the story of you and me and how we came to be

i’ve been conditioned
like freshly washed hair
for years
do not offend
unless the end of the sentence is “i’m sorry”
let the shoes and boots and heels of many make indents on you
like blueprints of demurity swaddled in insecurity
kept alive by the blurry ideas i once held about femininity
because I couldn't be a girl if the words that flew from my chords
were anything but rosy
ring around the rosie,
pockets full of suppose he was to compliment your ****
when walking down a thorough-fair
busy people back and forth and grandmas with wrinkled sweaters
thank you
muttered from chapped lips and an even more chapped psyche
why must i keep my wits about to not risk making him angry
that was not complimentary but i am fearful he might spit my words back onto me
in the form of fists and slurs and honestly
i'm tired
of being the sidewalk beneath the feet of creeps
i am the sky and the trees and the moon
but i do not speak with the wisdom of traveling seeds
i speak with the warmth and subtly of freshly microwaved milk
like soft silk i wish i could tatter
i wish venom soaked words could be spit in response to your “compliments”
but i would rather let you diminish me for the few moments it takes to objectify me
than to risk angering your inner beast and suffering the consequences of meninism or masculinism
whatever the word is this week
i will not be another number
ink soaked paper red with the monthly bloodshed of the sisters
every second is another unspeakable act
i see women
with tongues as round and large as planets
and tonsils the size of solar systems
birthing new galaxies in the words they speak
and shooting comets like fiery ***** of comebacks
when that slack-jawed fool sat and wished and drooled

"Adrianna, why do you always date *****?" questions my best friend in the way that implies an answer is not needed nor wanted in the warm light of his front porch in the car that belongs to me but he offers to drive when my stomach is sick and a new ****-up is laid like fresh paint on my mind.
The question itself spins like a coin in my head that will never lay flat, like a bad autotune job, like a Rube Goldberg that will never halt, like it has too much truth to it.
"Why do you always date *****?"
Because they don't seem like ***** when our eyes meet and the ***** of their smile makes my nose crinkle with an incessant desire to smell the warm scent of their chest as my head lays pillowed on it in the early morning calm before the loud realization of what events transpired the night before, before flashbacks of mixed bodies and sweaty whispers, before he decides he's seen enough of me, devoured his piece of meat, he's not hungry anymore.
When will I be his favorite food? The one he can have for breakfast lunch and dinner and still crave, the one he will always ask for seconds of, the one who is home to him. Every time I meet someone I call all of my friends and swear he's the ever so infamous "one," and every time I fall for the ******* lie that he "will not break me," YOU WILL NOT BREAK ME?! Then why am I shattered, laying in pieces on the cold tile floor, my mind a messy oozing disaster? But maybe my heart has always been just a taped up broken mess since Paula left, maybe when Aaron and Spain and Mitchell came along it was all too easy for them to pull at the poorly tied knotted strings I had sewn into my heart, maybe my soul was just a little too welcoming, maybe my mouth was a little too eager to feel theirs against it. But I can swear that when you "made love to me" it was really just *******, or else why would you take the one piece of me left only to complain after that I hadn't shaved. Well I've shaved every day since, cut bleeding patterns into my mortified anxiety, ripped tears from my eyes before I dare let them fall, and watched you kiss her over and over again. But if you asked me back I'd still say yes, rip the shredded heart from the box I've tended to keep it in and place it back in your hands to wear like a new notch in your belt, a new trophy for your collection.
"Why do you always date *****?"
Because some wretched inner part of my being believes I deserve it.

When I was just a little girl,
I asked my mother,
“What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be pretty?
What comes next?
Oh right, will I be rich?”
Which is almost pretty depending on where you shop.
And the pretty question infects from conception,
passing blood and breath into cells.
The word hangs from our mothers’ hearts
in a shrill fluorescent floodlight of worry.
“Will I be wanted?
Worthy?
Pretty?”
But puberty left me this fun house mirror dryad:
teeth set at science fiction angles,
crooked nose,
face donkey-long
and pox-marked where the hormones went finger-painting.
My poor mother.
“How could this happen?
You’ll have porcelain skin
as soon as we can see a dermatologist.
You ****** your thumb.
That’s why your teeth look like that!
You were hit in the face with a Frisbee when you were 6.
Otherwise your nose would have been just fine!
“Don’t worry.
We’ll get it fixed!”
She would say, grasping my face,
twisting it this way and that,
as if it were a cabbage she might buy.
But this is not about her.
Not her fault.
She, too, was raised to believe the greatest asset
she could bestow upon her awkward little girl was a marketable facade.
By 15, I was pickled with ointments,
medications, peroxides.
Teeth corralled into steel prongs.
My nose was never fixed.
Belly gorged on 2 pints of my blood I had swallowed under anesthesia,
and every convulsive twist of my gut like my body screaming at me from the inside out, “What did you let them do to you!”
All the while this never-ending chorus droning on and on, like the IV needle dripping liquid beauty into my blood. “Will I be pretty? Will I be pretty? Like my mother, unwrapping the gift wrap to reveal the bouquet of daughter her $10,000 bought her? Pretty? Pretty.”
And now, I have not seen my own face for 10 years. I have not seen my own face in 10 years, but this is not about me.
This is about the self-mutilating circus we have painted ourselves clowns in. About women who will prowl 30 stores in 6 malls to find the right cocktail dress, but haven’t a clue where to find fulfillment or how wear joy, wandering through life shackled to a shopping bag, beneath those 2 pretty syllables.
About men wallowing on bar stools, drearily practicing attraction and everyone who will drift home tonight, crest-fallen because not enough strangers found you suitably fuckable.
This, this is about my own some-day daughter. When you approach me, already stung-stayed with insecurity, begging, “Mom, will I be pretty? Will I be pretty?” I will wipe that question from your mouth like cheap lipstick and answer, “No! The word pretty is unworthy of everything you will be, and no child of mine will be contained in five letters.
“You will be pretty intelligent, pretty creative, pretty amazing. But you, will never be merely ‘pretty’.”

Blue was your favorite color
and I haven’t worn it since.
It reminds me of the sky that I thought you had painted for me,
how you always saw faces in the clouds
and you told me their stories.
The midday horizon matches the hue of your deep ocean eyes
but only my eyes have ever seemed to flood.
When you moved on I finally knew what green felt like
as loss and envy went fingerpainting across my bones until my bloodstream
was slow-flowing emerald,
the same shade of green danced alongside you
in the form of a dress.
I wonder if she ever felt the glowing yellow that illuminated my insides
every time that you called me beautiful and made me feel
like a gold ray of sunshine on a summer’s day.
But now,
I’m starting to favor winter.
I still inhale icy breaths as the shades of red you evoked within me
linger like migraines,
sharp pain that you left behind,
a scar that cannot be concealed because it’s so hard to hide
from the shades of scarlet that once painted your face.
I see your colors everywhere,
I remember feeling safe with you,
I never knew that I could become homesick from people too.
You were a rainbow and I was a shade.
You brought everything to life,
you made the stars dance and my face new tones of paint.
Then you decided that light tones just weren’t for you
and I missed
shades of perfect blue.
I’ve become a morning person so I can see the sky before it turns tones of you.
The orange-pink horizon has become my new favorite color
and I wear it every day in the highlights of my eyes and my skin,
it begins to feel warm again
and the long car rides and radio dials that sing melodies
no longer remind me of you.
We loved each other like change of the weather but can never make sense
of the storms within us.
If souls had colors
I remember I used to think ours were the same.
Same shade of sapphire storms that brewed within our lungs,
the words you screamed went heavy on our tongues.
All I hear are the winds through this hurricane.
I can’t see my way out
I only see you
I can only scream out
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.
I poured everything into this but we were always empty,
empty minds, empty hands.
The ground we built has become unsteady to stand on.
I remember when you left I saw the red seeping through the cracks in my palms
of where yours used to fit so perfectly.
I don’t remember the sorrow,
I don’t recall the pain.
I remember the relief
and how every color was just beautiful.
I thought the world was going to be so dark
without you.

Let’s play a game.
Hey, boy, left of the dealer, deal me some cards,
But take out the jokers because even though I like funny guys,
I don’t wanna be dealt any of your cheap moves.

Instead, deal me the aces.
Deal me the kings, queens, and jacks because
I want the best of what you’ve got.
Even deal me the twos and threes because, honestly,
I want to know what you’re not.

And if you don’t have two of a kind, that’s okay-
I’ll have a match.
We’ll pair up our hearts
Because together we will pump more life into this world.
Share our twos and threes
Because exposing our weaknesses will lead to a stronghold.
Sell our diamonds because
Pretty, petty things will only lead to a belief in the value of fool’s gold.

We’ll de-clare war.
Grab the spades and clubs because love is more than just a game for two.
It is a battlefield.

And by the look in your eyes you’ve been shot by too many queens of hearts with cupid’s arrow.
So show me your scars.
Open heart surgery won’t hurt that much.
C’mon, we’ll play operation.
I’ll be the doctor, and you’ll be the patient.
Hand me the scalpel,
don’t scream now,
I might have forgotten the anesthesia.

But don’t worry,
Laughter is the best medicine.
And I am funny.
Trust me.
Trust me, trust me, trust me.
Open yourself up because this scalpel just isn’t working.

What queen of hearts decided she could steal yours?
Give me a clue.
Was it Mrs. White in the kitchen with the rope?
Mrs. Peacock in the ballroom with the dagger?
It was Mrs. Scarlett in the coat closet?

No, no, no.
Don’t bump me back to start-- I’m sorry.

Our pasts are not taboo.
Every why or what or who has merely been a teetering, tottering
domino set in place along my ribcage.
Waiting for you to tip the first barrier and clear the path to my heart.

We can treat this like a slow game of Jenga.
Building slowly until we run out of blocks and then we’ll stop.
Because taking turns tearing it down can come later.
And by later I mean maybe, hopefully, possibly never.

Or…we could just play Uno.
Tossing all our
matches into a messy pile.
Using our wild cards to avoid drawing anything that might drag us back into the game,
Reverse cards, skip your next turn cards,
It’s all the same.

But that’s okay because I know this game of risk is just a temporary thrill.
It’s the missing first kisses, the oh baby it’s you I can’t resist,
and the oh god my broken heart wants to jump off all of these suicidal bridges.
This game will end.
Because this isn’t love.
It’s really just teenage betting-on-an-ace-of-hearts pretend.

I want to know how to be
everything you need.
Teach me how to be
the reflection of your dreams.
I will paint you oceans,
sail you across the world, buy islands
and name them after you.
I want to be everything
you’ve ever imagined.

You follow the world
from the safest distance.
You are completely odd
in all of the right ways
and I want to be
the mirror image
of your wildest dreams.

Sweetheart, shut up for two seconds so I can kiss you.
Let those words that mean so much wait a **** second or two,

See if they can stand the pain of waiting to come across your lips.
I feel like I’ve been waiting much too long for exactly this.

The ache in my core is much too hard to stand anymore.

Sweetheart, just shut the hell up for a moment so I can kiss you.
Leave the singing to the birds, love, let me do what I came here to.

I’d love to be the ink beneath your skin, just because I’d love to know
What it feels like to make you complete, to be a part of you.

There is a pain in my stomach from not being with you.

Sweetheart, please just shut up for a minute and let me kiss you.
Let those rants and raves take a little break and live my dreams with me.

So, God permit, if I shut up for two seconds will you kiss me?
Hold me closer and make me forget that this is reality?

I want to wake up from this lonely dream and find you next to me,
And I will shut up for a minute so you can kiss me.

The ache in my core will turn to clouds and I will soar.

Since the day I could speak, I would kneel by my bed, and pray to God
Give me something like that.
Someplace to lock my secrets in, a human vending machine
That kisses all your scrapes and scars
*Give me something like that.

"Whatever is supposed to happen, will happen."

But what about all the effort, pain, love--
will this all just be for nothing?

“Ye—yes, s—sir,” Alex stuttered, sitting up and backing against the sofa.

“Well..” Mr. Joyce clutched the knife tightly in his fist, his knuckles turning white from intense anger. He could feel his son’s eyes growing wider and drops of sweat dwindling down the side of his face. He could hear his son’s heart rate and breathing quicken, and could feel the transfer of cower make the couch shake in unison to his son, on his leg. Mr. Joyce grinned. He moved quickly and pinned Alexander against the back of the couch with his forearm across his neck. Mr. Joyce could feel his son struggling to breathe. He smiled spitefully. Mr. Joyce slowly brought the knife to his son’s face, making sure he could see it.

“Now,” Mr. Joyce whispered maliciously. Alexander’s pupils dilated at the sight of the knife, tears rolling down his face and landing on his father’s arm. He brought the knife closer to his son’s neck, gently poking his delicate skin to see him tremble in fear. “You’ll be an even better son.” He pressed down, carefully breaking his elusive skin and watched in delight as the first trickles of blood broke free. Overcome with fury, Mr. Joyce plunged the blade into him deeper, watching in satisfaction while the crimson blood soaked into the boy’s soccer uniform, poured onto his arm, and onto the couch. Mr. Joyce dragged the knife slowly across his throat, reveling in the slight struggle the boy attempted in putting up. Gurgling sounds escaped Alexander’s mouth, but he was soon silent and still. The blood of Mr. Joyce’s failure of a son darkened the cream colored sofa with every drop that fell from his neck, drying to a deep, disappointing brown.

Mr. Joyce looked to his wife, still gripping the blood-stained knife in his hand and breathing deeply. Krystine peered up to him from the magazine in nonchalance, “After everyone’s finished with dinner, I’ll call to order a new sofa.” She sat up to retrieve the plates of blood-touched sandwiches on the table.

“Aw,” Krystine sighed, looking down at the dishes, then to her husband, “these were my mother's nice plates.”

science tells us that energy cannot be created or destroyed
only transferred
is that why your feelings for me were so easily transferred to someone new?
were they just the next best model of bulb for your circuit?
am I no longer bright enough?
science tells us that materials cannot disappear
so what happened to our memories?
do they lay dormant at the bottom of the ocean
or floating up in the atmosphere?
I still have my share, but yours are no where to be seen
if I could create a chemical reaction to reignite us I would
but you don’t want that
science tells us that atoms can form bonds
you’d think they’d be unbreakable
I thought that too
clouds look so stable and solid
and as children we believe that
but growing up teaches us that clouds are as stable as well
as us
I don’t believe in fate
or anything I can’t see
but I guess if I did I’d say our souls were bonded and that there’s a string of moon dust pulling on my heart strings.
I guess I’d say I AM the moon and you’re the sun cause no one would notice me without you
I guess I’d say that in a past life our bodies were rocks that formed together
I guess I’d say that when I saw you for the first time the sun shone brighter on you than anyone else
because you are so beautiful
and I guess I’d say that fireworks explode in my chest around you
and that galaxies must have collided to form those eyes
and I’d say that time stops to hear your voice because nothing is ready to hear angels sing
and I guess I’d say that id like to kiss you in the rain of our happiness and yes I said rain because rain falls hard like I did for you
and I guess if I believed it I’d say that somewhere in the ******* stars it says I was meant to love you
but science tells us the stars we see are dead anyway
you can keep that metaphor

I know falling apart is just

one of those easy things,

but I guess I was really

hoping it would have been

harder than it looked.
I must look so put together.

I mean, that has to be

why I shift inside and outside

of wide shadowed rooms,

it’s like the shadows are not

ever dark enough to make me

want to stay.

I still cry during corny movies

because I wish things really

did fall together like that.

I wish my bones weren’t

made from glass.
They’ll never ask about

the cavities in your teeth

but you’re still making sure

they know about how you brush

2 times a day (sometimes 3) and then

you floss until your gums are sore

but you always leave out the part
where you grind your back molars too much

whenever you try to sleep.

The dentist told you it was totally normal

but soon they’re crumbling and you think:

No, not so normal.
The days when I smile, I look sad

and the days when I cry, I look happy.
It’s like I’m all muddled together

from trying to switch the gears

too fast.

I revved my engine

until I couldn’t even roar anymore.
Falling apart was just 
too easy to ever
try to make it hard

and some girl in my science class

keeps saying something

about the tragedies being art

but this isn’t poetic

or pretty,

how could it be

when falling apart should never

come this easy?

Dear, when June kisses me Hello
the way you never did

and the temperature outside
hits one hundred and five,
I will think of the way I’m feeling
right now to cool myself down.

Because not since last year
have I felt so deeply chilled.

My bones are made of ice,
my eyes are snow, my heart
needs thawing. And if you don’t
warm it, oh well,

I’ll just stay frozen solid
till I drop dead and melt in hell.

They think I’m mad, I’m
crazy broken, but they just don’t know
what it’s like when someone
so wonderful has you hoping.

Even when my hopes
are defeated,

shot down
after flying so high,
I’ll force myself
to keep believing.

did my promise,
my sincerity,
feel good in your hands?
did it sit well
in your broken heart?

did my desperation,
my lovesickness,
sparkle in your eyes?
did it settle your
twisting stomach?

did my nervousness,
my helplessness,
melt your boarded-up
and frozen, broken heart?
did it make you blush?

did my desperateness,
my constant attempts,
warm your icy soul?
did it taste good
on your sly smile?

even though you’ve
lost another one of
your leads, you still
refuse to play that
you’re in love with me.

I wish you'd develop and addiction to me
in the same way you're addicted
to your menthols.

You**
know that we only have these
fleeting hours to keep us going
until next we meet,

but I only want to drown in your embrace
and fall into a content sleep.
If it were up to me, I
would
never
leave. I will be your everything,
I will tell you anything
that you want to hear.

We will bury ourselves
underneath your comforter,
locked in your bedroom

and away from everything else.
You would sing me what I know,
you would hold me close to you,

and sing me what I don’t know.
I will tell every star in the sky
how desperately I
need
to be here. I will wish to
anchor myself here, to your bed,
to you. You would kiss
me
until the moon goes down. And
I ask you in the darkness, wrapped up
in your blankets, arms and heartbeat,

if we can stay forever this way.

I want his soul to strip down,
completely naked.
I want to see all the scars and imperfections formed inside.
I want to tell him not to be afraid,
but hell,
I’m afraid because I destroy everything I touch.
And what if I actually get a chance to touch his soul,
not just his body;
it’s a make or break situation,
and hell,
when I’m done,
I bet his body will be a hurricane named after me.

I know you’re good at lying
You’ve got the lips for spinning webs
One slip of the tongue can build a tower
A tower that we can live in together
We can grow old in the little house of lies
The strong castle you built for me
Sit by the fire, fed by the fairytales you tell
And tell each other more lies all night long
So, lovely liar, would you tell me one lie?
Would you pretty please tell me
That I mean more than anything?
It really would be wonderful if you lied
And told me how much you love me

Don’t lie, you’re good at lying
You know what everyone wants to hear
One or two minutes and you’ve got them smiling,
Even if it isn’t the whole truth and nothing but
You and I could smile for hours, you know
I can tell you what you did to my heart
All the little things that drove me crazy in love
No doubt you’ll smile at that
Then you can lie and say that you love me,
You can lie and tell me how much better
Life got for you once I stepped in
It’d surely make me smile if you lied
And told me how much you love me

No one knows, but I know you’re good at lying
You’ve got the sincerity in your voice for telling tales
One word can build a boat
A boat we can live on together
We can sail the sea of lies on the little rowboat
The indestructible rowboat made of your lies
Sail the seven seas, protected by every little lie
Every single lie you’ve told me
And I won’t mind
If you lied
And told me how much you loved me.If

I’ve been driving all night
Over frozen lakes and streams.
Though everything is frozen,
I’m sure you can melt my heart,
Which is racing alongside my mind.
Am I still alive?
Because I’m almost sure I’m dreaming.
Heaven’s about an hour away,
So are your bright blue eyes,
Your smiling face.
My cheeks are red and I wish I’d stop looking
So in love and ridiculous,
But it’s hard to hide the obvious.
Wrap your arm around my shoulders and keep me warm
Because everything outside is frozen.
Lightning is flashing all around us, but I am almost sure
You’ll keep me safe with your bright hazel eyes
And smiling face and heart so warm it’s almost burning.
Do you know that everyone around is staring?
Honestly? You want to know the truth?
They’re all lies, dreams, hallucinations of mine;
I can guarantee they won’t be here long.
Even though I’m not that much to you,
Just a smiling, brown-eyed, truthful ripple in a sea of lies,
I am almost sure negative eight degrees will freeze hell over
Before you recognize my face, know my name,
Look me over with your bright blue eyes, and smiling face
And heart so warm it’s almost burning,
Tonight’s a broken record for my senses.
I can feel your touch, hear your voice, see your bright blue eyes
And smiling face like it was yesterday.
Your heart so warm it’s almost burning
Melting everything outside that’s
Frozen.

Brown leaves and red leaves
And yellow like your hair
Hugs and secrets and baring our souls
And things we wouldn’t normally share

The air is crisp and cold and mean
Like poisonous darts on my skin
These evils that attack my delicate heart
Are tearing it limb from limb

Let’s fall back to the twenty-third of June
If our sweaty pinkies hugged it out
And promised each other everything
Then what was that all about?

My cheeks are pink and sting from outside
You’d normally pull me in from the cold
Because you were shy and I was shy
But together we were bold

Now you’re out, around and around
Never to return again
Just skipping all over and playing cards
With a redhead named Mary Jane

My favorite cowardly lion has found her courage
And left me to face the fact
She’s gone and left every scar open
With no hope of falling back

You can look at a puzzle
for hours and hours
and try to fit the pieces together
the way they should be,
but then you're gonna see a space
smack dab in the middle,
and you won't be able to find the piece
to complete the picture.
You and I have all the pieces,
we just chose the wrong time
to figure out the puzzle.

Lord knows
I've fallen into the rusty hidden comfort
of too many mens' arms.

I've found all  the wrong ways of coping,
so what're the right ones?

Angel, Devil, Savior, Killer, Lover,
I am moving all the mountains I can,
But they crumble and I run for cover,
For I’m more afraid than you understand.
Escape from real life, my sweet, sweet relief,
Because in reality, you are far.
I am insane and you bring me peace,
I’d **** to be exactly where you are.
I would take excellent care of you, dear.
I would bring all the heavens crashing down.
I would eliminate all of your fears,
Atop your mane, I’d lay a silver crown.
Angel, Devil, Savior, Killer, Lover,
I’d do anything to be your cover.

Meet me in a Carolina, love, let the silk of your lips greet me,
And without words you can tell me how much you missed me
I’ve been tossing and turning; Crying out for you while I’m sleeping and
Momma’s awful worried, love.

So I’ll catch my bus while you hop your flight
So you can meet me somewhere far away where the sky’s bright

And after all those falls you’ve taken,
I think you could use someone to hold you…
Love, I will gladly, happily, eagerly volunteer.

Dear, can I be honest with you?
I just don’t know anymore; I don’t know what to do.
I’ve forgotten how to be the girl everyone needs me to be.
And I don’t know how I got so far away from you.
I just don’t know why you even stuck around or why
You even dared to raise your glass to many more last nights.

Never once in my wildest nightmares did it come to this, but here we are.
Swallowing the water we’re surrounded by and being weighed down.
And the more we try to stay up, the more we drown.
Never once in my greatest daydream did you even stick around, but here you are.
But it’s only a matter of time before you close the door on any chance we had.
But it’s only a matter of time before we go back to being empty and sad.

I long to be near you, just to stand by you.
I’ve said it too many times and you’re probably tired
Of hearing my voice, this sorry broken record.
It all makes sense when I look into your eyes.
Everything falls into place when your baby browns meet mine,
But when I look away, it’s all askew and undefined.

Life has thrown me curveballs I’ve managed to dodge.
I’ll never regret catching you, you random act of God.
You’ve given me hope and found me when I was lost.
You are too good for me and I don’t need to be told twice.
But I need to be around you to keep myself alive, to keep myself up.
The touch of your skin, the sound of your voice, I can’t get enough.

I’m being honest, dear.