butterfly, fly away
infest my heart some other day,
you'll find its just too dead to give
you all the love you need to live.
once upon a time it beat
to another's tune; so sweet
but as it is, the lies decay
and block out all the light of day
'til only pain falls from above
its damaging to fall in love.

so butterfly, onto your grave,
i've bled out all the life you crave.

what i fear is that you're far too infatuated
with the adventures and the ***
and the newness of it all
to see how little of your time i'm really worth.
yes, there is an abundance of flesh
to grab and kiss and ****
and it's true that i writhe and ******
and beg for you to choke me
so you're aware that there is sadness
beneath this mountain of flesh
skin and scars i laughingly call my body
but i think that you're too blinded
by the manic side of my depression
to see how dark my world is becoming.

I don’t want to be something someone asks you about just because they don’t know any other conversation-starters.
I don’t want to be the last drag of your cigarette only for you to say “Oh well I’ll just light another one.”
I don’t want to be a suicide note you read over and over again trying to understand why you never understood me.
I don’t want to be the symbol behind your sorrow, I don’t want to be the last lilac sitting in a vase on your kitchen table watching you try to keep it alive.
I don’t want to be that song you listen to over and over trying to recreate something that you never even experienced to begin with.
I don’t want to be that picture you keep above your bed, I don’t want to be the half-eaten meal you fed to the dogs instead.
I don’t want to be compared to that thing that is killing you that I can’t control. But I am. I am. I am.
I’m sorry.

the body will always remember
what the mind will spend
a lifetime trying to forget.
And there is just no running away
from that.

"What's your favorite color?"
This is my least favorite question.
I don't believe in one favorite color.
A single color repeated over and over gets boring, redundant.
The color of his eyes when he laughs.
Or the color of the moon against the deep blackness around it.
Or a small blue flame.
Those are beautiful colors.
They are colors composed of a million other colors.
But there is no single color that can be defined from them.
No hue or shade or opacity that can recreate such a refraction of light.
No combination of reds or greens or blues can even begin to mimic their beauty.

I remember a day
When you hurried over to me
In quite a rush.
"Have this."
And you extended your hand.

A single die fell into my palm.
It was cold, and hard, and a plain cube,
White, with 21 black dots on it.
Lifeless and inanimate,
It meant the world to me.

I remember a day
When you hurried over to me
In quite a rush.
"Have this."
And you extended your hand.

Your heart fell into my palm.
It was warm and barely beating,
A sloppy mass of tissue and life.
Broken and battered,
It meant the world to me.

I romanticized you
to the point where
the knives you pressed
into my skin
began to look
like Cupid’s arrow

Can I have you?

Can I have your morning eyes

and late night yawns?


Can I have your deep sighs

after long days of work,
and joyous laughter

from watching your

favorite shows?


Can I have your frightening

holler when you’re angry,

and your low moans when

you feel pleasure?


Can I have the tears that

streak your face when
you’re down,

and the heart that beats

within you to keep you alive?


Can I have every part of you