i was hoping you would take
everything from inside me at
least         swallow  part  of  it
because i've taken   bullets to
my legs   mostly from myself
because i was too  b  i  g   too
small     too too too too much
for my  own  skin  to  handle
that i thought about          the
roundness       beneath      my
surface everysecondof  every
dayuntil i  learned to despise
circles and buy everything in
smallboxesandnarrow    lines
where i hope to fit one day is
your glucose enough for you
is your steak justrightdo you
want another slice of cake do
you  want  to  be  a   w h o l e
planet or a piece  of cotton in
the wind do you want to  eat
me do youwant to eat me do
you want to eat me  until i'm
whole                              again

Your presence consumes me
You electrify my body
You have awaken my soul

Let my eyes scan what's beneath that smile
Give me permission to take your breath away just like the way you took mine
Spare me a little of your love and whisper to me your desires

I want to taste your lips
I want to be buried inside your very being
Before I crush you in to a million tiny pieces just like what you did to me, darling

With both of us standing
Infront of the guillotine,
Why did you take her
Instead of me?

I'm trying to find the reason.
Why did I deserve to live?
What kept me here
And took her away?

I'm not even close
To deserving half a life.
But she did nothing wrong,
Still she's the one you took.

Maybe it's survivors guilt,
And maybe i'm being stupid.
But I don't understand,
Why God would take a soul like hers
And leave me to live.

She’s the type to eat a bowl of ice cream,
shoot a gun, and be fine. I’ve never seen so many pieces
under someone’s rug before, but she keeps
herself in cookie jars, in ink cartridges, in book binds,
anything she can find. I’m surprised she even looks
in the mirror anymore. It’s not possible that she’s herself whole.
But she braids her hair back when she rides her horse,
she channels old Miranda Lambert
and pumps that kerosene melody through her veins
like it wont’ catch fire. I’ve seen her
poke her head through old sweaters like she thinks
it’ll be something new this time. I’ve seen her paint
her skin in expensive body washes, the washcloth
like sandpaper as she tries and tries to smooth
all of the uneven edges she’s collected.

I bet you could watch her memories in a wishing pool,
like in a mini mall, with all the pennies heads down.
They would spin themselves around the surface,
suffocating one another so that only the good ones would shine,
but she dare not pour herself into something that reflective.
It would only reveal what she ties into the waistband
of her old American Eagle jeans every morning,
and that would just be too **** hard. It’s easier
to venture ******* with a crummy perspective
and a realistic approach than it would be to even consider
that maybe this time it wasn’t her fault
for expecting to much, and that maybe people just ***** up.
That maybe, for once she wouldn't blame it on it getting her hopes up
that made her fall, but that no one was there to catch her.
I’d rather watch her cry herself to sleep for months

than to pretend I admire the harsh falsetto she bites back
in all of her lullabies. But she’s the type
to burn old pictures for fun, to delete contact names,
to swallow all her sadness and paint her bedroom a new color
than watch herself come undone.

Text her. Send her messages that she won't know how to respond to. she'll read them and put her phone down. Stare at the read receipt for hours until you realize she's not picking the phone back up, she doesn't have anything to say to you.

Eat lots of chocolate. It has serotonin in it, the happy chemical. When you cuddle with her, your brain releases oxytocin. As long as you eat enough chocolate (and throw it up) you won't miss the oxytocin one bit.

Bleed. When she tells you that she cuts herself, cut deeper. This is guerrilla warfare now, and for every shot fired you must fire back.

Read your messages. Laugh at the nicknames she used. "Princess". "Baby". "Darlin". You were never her princess, never her baby. She was the child and you were merely her plaything.

Make art. Write dumb poetry about falling in and out of love, take photographs of your ****** thighs, paint a picture using only shades of red. Let her figure out what all these things mean.

Drink. Green tea, *****, over-priced lattes. Stay up all night crying. Wear stilettos. Sit in art museums all alone and wonder if being a starving artist is as much fun as it sounds. Take long showers and harmonize with your favorite songs through your tears. Use heavier, blacker eyeliner. Spend time on yourself. Adopt a cat. But most of all, remember this:

You can only love one person. Choose yourself

this is
quiet
this is 3:17 AM, awakened by dreams of smoking illegal things with you
this is hushed whispers, bated breath, this is
waiting this is
the moment after a slap across the cheek.
this is
deep
this is the pacific ocean, hiding skeletons of sailors and pirates who
maybe never wanted to condemn anyone to this dark, damp death they
just wanted a little money for their baby girl at home this is
conversations with a cactus at midnight this is
trying to catch my breath after running to your open arms
this is
dark
feeling for your hands but catching your neck instead this is
“this place is ******* haunted, Grace”
this is holding me at the waist this is
European cathedrals on rainy afternoons this is
5’1” and 5’3” this is
tea at 7:34 AM this is
out of tune pianos everywhere I look and
lying on the floor, battered and bruised as you part your lips
ever so slightly, this is
a memorized dance, a harmony
under scrutinizing stage lights.
this is rehearsed, this is
directed, this is choreographed, this is
not a performance anymore.

You're the kind of boy I cant tell my mother about, because she warned me not to fall for guys like you. I guess she didn't warn me enough because oh did I fall for you. She didn't warn me that you would leave & everything I've come to know would be complete & utter *******. She didn't warn me that I would see you on the street with a new girl, & I'd go home and cry for 3 days. She didn't warn me that mascara is so ******* hard to get out of pillowcases. & she didn't warn me that no matter what I do, you still don't want me. But she did warn me not to fall for you, & next time, I think I'll listen to my mother.

We have no choice in our birth
Or the time we are brought into this earth
Henceforth tis only by a want
A choice not to be flaunt
It's a fight that will only put on delay
The day when we kiss this world away
Destined for a date unfathomable
But to some the beauty is discoverable
Each soul lives by self a self goal
Wonderful wants tucked into a unique skull
To some the end is a terrible fear
Others becon it near
"Love thy neighbor"
They may be poor
Or
Shut you out with the slam of a door
But, if you love you can do no more
We will all face the hooded reaper
It can end in a gentle whisper
Or a terrible fight of terror
For many including i
We don't wish to die
But there are those who suffer
Whose choice to live is to worse than the other
We all wish to save eachother
And yet must discover
Dieing is a salvation
To a burdened soul without any hope of a collection
Of their deserved happy memories
Denied to them since infancies
As awful truths as these
Death is no disease
I love you
And no matter what may be
That is true

once a boy called me for three hours just to talk about my favourite
movie. i never said i
loved him. like everything
else, winter murdered whatever we
had and the next
summer was very
foreign. once a boy loved
me and never told
me. the last night he walked away from my
porch i pictured him as a cloud of
tears, as a white
flag. once i loved a
boy and when i told him, he said ‘i
know.’ my best friend tells me i’m good at making
fists. i try to find
god in vintage wallpaper and downtown
bars, sitting so
long that my ears flood with the signal
notes of a lonely man’s
saxophone. here, you can smell cemeteries and
playgrounds on the same
street. here,
boys never love you
back. once, i broke a rock in my bare
hand. once, a boy i hardly ever
talked to told me that i was a good
poet in the way i explained
things and asked me please not to become a
dead one. i didn’t know what i
meant when i told him i’d
try. once i loved a boy so full of
anger that his god begged him for
mercy. i think i almost
loved a boy once.