Phones reflect the self within us.
We use covers that show a hint of our personality maybe a panda cover, covers that mask and hide the scratches and bruises but they are still there.
They seem to grow and deepen each day and we have the power to stop it but how do we stop the scratches from showing, stop the smudges from appearing on the screen?
The point is we can't.
If the phone drops, it drops simple as that.
yeah we should make a big deal out of it especially when new scratches appear but we have to pick the phone up.
When it slips and falls again we must again pick it up.
When the screen cracks we feel like we should have put a screen protector on.
Then we try to protect it as much as possible.
We try to prevent the cracks from deepening.
We can't get new phones though, the self might be able to reassemble once cracked but fragments of the older self still remain , it can never be replaced.
We can only try to take care of it like we would our phones.

I was a victim
Of your addiction.
One of your numbers
It's too bad
You don't keep count.

I was one of your poisons
You used to try
to ****
All the slices and scars
All the sadness and pain

I was one of your mistakes
A strong one
That put bars over the door
Kept all the razors at bay.
Would never run away.

Yesterday you gave up
Addictions
Poisons
And
Mistakes

Today I gave up
You

Five minute street artists
and insomnia mongers.
****** drunk blondes
and finger snapping phat booties.

Street geniuses
bred by Machiavellian philosophies
cypher dreams over tokes
of marijuana smoke.

Color worshipping narcotic traffickers,  
and bread winners
parole corners
sporting fitted caps and twisting fingers.

Senile war veterans
beg for change in cardboard boxes
from the American dreams
they afforded.

Hard workers with every ethnicity
molded into each pore of their face,
rub shoulders with tourists at traffic stops
barely escaping tires crushing their feet.

Sartorial geniuses with no pants
switch hips in knock-off stellos heels,
selling the origin of the world on avenues
next to Arab Halal food.

Cooperate ties and blue collars chafe ***** on subways.
nodding in and out of Daily News articles  
while oxygen blessed by asparagus ****
pump through their noses.

Summa *** laude number runners dictate economies
From sky-crapper offices,
And powered rain swallows their concrete each winter,
With no apologies.

i want to burn like those cigarettes you smoke

light me up and i’ll fade to ashes

cast a silhouette of yourself onto my skin

because i want to feel your edges in the dim light

your languid movements are like a dying language

that we still remember how to speak

your body is a staircase

and i will climb

until i forget what i was running from

i need you to fight against my skin until i remember that i am whole

I wonder how one who lives by the sea
can ever truly believe that love doesn’t exist.
Do you not see the desperation in the way
the waves pound endlessly to the shore?
They crash deliriously on the rocks,
and it reminds me of how I want you:
infintely, eternally, like the stars.

I am so tired of this sick, dysphoric feeling I get in the pit of me,
a dull ache in my bones.
I keep going:
I purse my lips and choke on my flowery words.
I won’t pretend to be a poet anymore.

I’m sorry, but I don’t want you to just love me ironically,
or kiss me sarcastically,
or undress me metaphorically.
I want this to be honest and pure.

I don’t need a love song sung at dawn,
or towers built in my honor.
Sunsets and moonlight are not for you, I understand.
I just want to feel you breathe against me in timed rhythms.
Rise, peak, fall.
I need this.

she deals out kisses like hard candy
with a coy smile
and a swivel of her hips
a sweet little laugh
that sounds like ice
before you know it
she'll have your heart in her hands
"love" is what she'll call it
and you'll believe it too.
but "love" doesn't last long
with a swivel of her hips
and a sweet little laugh
your heart will go with her
and you'll just be another name off her list
another heart in her jar.