I got some books last weekend
some filled with flowers
some filled with words
some filled with poetry
all filled with heartache
As I flipped through the pages
my hands began to bleed
and I realized that it was not my own
but it was the blood of the people
who turned their heart and soul
into black ink on a piece of paper
-

and I count the patterns in the paint
and the tiles on the ceiling
and the freckles on your face
and the scars on my wrists
and the threads in the sheets
all in the midst of
a cough syrup haze
-

cycle
rinse cycle
rinse and repeat
repeat offender
offense defense
defender of the light
light of my life
life without love
love will break you
you will break me
me, who am I
I am just words
words thrown together
together forever
forever doesn't exist
exist is all we do
do you want to
to exist somewhere
somewhere secret
secret is safe
safe in your arms
armed forces
forces stronger than love
love
love
love
love
*love

remember how I used to write your last name
and imagine how it would look next to my first name
well now I am doing the same thing
only with someone far more wonderful
than you can ever hope to be
-

I only ever fall for the damaged ones
like projects, or patients
I want to fix them, cure them
And I sew pieces of my heart onto theirs
to cover the scars and holes and cancers
Maybe it's because I feel that I myself
will never be a completely whole person
so I spend all of my time and energy
trying to fix the ones I feel deserve to be
-