Poems are like cutting your skin because thick words turn thin and human ink is shed and racing blood wears cold.
Poems just trigger more poems like trying to crack a razor out of its shell.
Razors are always the quiet girls,
or the Ghosts:
Dead human souls that feed off of other peoples "Hard times!"
A date on a page can be as tempting as a dark street with a broken lined scab.
Everyday for 30 and only one empty space has the courage to change.
You want to take that pen
We all know you do.
We know you want it running circles underneath your hands.
Define wrists without wet pillows and your brain in it's angry stance.
Try to imagine a place without him.
Skin is a cigarette.
Why don't you take a drag.

You are the chills that make traveling down my spine its hobby
when your breath slides itself temptingly down the pattern of my sweating neck
and both of our names become a slurred chorus of too-close puffy lips and rolled back eyes and soft writhing hips being spoken over each other with more crescendo each time and louder and louder and you know my fingernails have always thirsted for your skin and my tongue has always pleaded to be a part of you and
my breaths have refused to do anything else than inhale your exhales.
The windows of your car are perspiring like us and I think the temperature is rising high enough for everything to explode.
I think this moment was always meant to happen.

You've given me pieces of you that I have learned to never accept and maybe it’s because they’re sharp or maybe it’s because I can’t keep my hands from shaking long enough to explain it to you.
You've given me a reason to be blind, you dared me to never open my eyes but when I asked why, all I saw was you.
If I shut my lids tight, there you are, fireworks of green and yellow and blue. Only if I open them slow enough. But I am never careful.
Do you feel that constant heaving in your throat too? It must be Gods hands wringing the life out of you.
I don’t want to say I love you anymore, but I love you so much. I can’t handle it and I don’t try to swallow too much all at once.
I just let it spill and drip and burn whoever, I can’t say that I care.
All I can attempt to do about making you leave anymore is to make you stay.
I try to steady my pencil and remember how to write your name over and over again on my notebooks till they bleed with my eyes closed and my fingers inside out.
I want to rip your chest apart and I don’t want you to ask me to return what I found inside.
It’ll all be broken anyway, you won’t want it back.

I rip my chest plates apart, the most rickety china you own.
I throw my heart on the ground because I can feel my love for you too heavily in the depths of my decaying bones.
You burn right through me and I let you sometimes.
I imagine the weight of you never being too much to leave me strength less, because I've watched your chest rise and fall like the world was making way for you in the remainder of its eternity, as if the galaxy decides to lose itself in the stars when you exhale fervor into the crook of my neck.
It isn't too much. I will never get enough.
I’m knocking at your door,
but instead of knuckles,
my heart is in my fist,
And I am beating against your chest.
You draw really well, and I hope you know I’d give you permission to make art on my skin.
I’ll be your canvas if you let me in.

I think I fell in love with him long before I even knew I did. I think I had fallen in love with him between trying to figure out if I had already or not. When he cried the day he thought I was going to smoke a blunt with a couple of kids older than me, and the day he told his best friend: "I think I'm falling in love with her." Up until right now, lying on my bed with my head rested on my crossed arms, listening to the sounds of his breaths lull him into deeper states of sleep; dreaming dreams you and I can attempt to imagine, but only a beautiful human being like him has the privilege to see for himself.
Sometimes when we're on the phone for a while, and I know he's tired because I can hear the rasp in his voice return just like the night before, when he was at the verge of sleep, I don't say anything. I just let him. I just let the silence fill the void between the crease of his struggling eyes, and I remain silent. I let his eyes close. Because I like when he falls asleep. It's comforting, and peaceful, and less lonely hearing his little intakes of breaths every so often.
Sometimes I don't want to hang up, because I know I'll be lonely again once the sleepy silence between our call has ended. I usually draw it out for an hour or so before I force myself to hang up, but never before confessing my love to him every night, quietly, as honestly as I can. Of course he can't hear me, but I always hope that maybe somewhere in his unconscious mind, my words are able to reach him. Maybe in his dreams. Or maybe they never do, seeing as though, occasionally, I remind him in the morning of what I said to him, and he smiles, and pleads for me to never stop.
And that's what makes it worth it. That's why I say words he may never hear. Because somewhere along the line, heard or unheard, my subtle words are still able to put a smile on his face. And I think that's all any of us strive for, is to smile, and to find love, and for love to find us. Whether or not we even know it ourselves.

I still haven't hung up.

I don't think I will.

I fell in love with the way our fingers intertwined and your breath when it was heavily against mine. I fell in love with loving you, you were a novel rated 5 stars: "The novel of a lifetime!", but my lifetime especially.
I fell in love with you without a trace and without a doubt. The only freckles that have frightened me are the ones I've faced that scatter across your arms in the summer, because caring about freckles, and also a dimple, and then a smile, more than you care about yourself, is scarier than I had originally thought.

You fell in love with holding me, and imploring me to love myself because you loved all the curves of my body and the way my jeans hugged my hips. You fell in love with the way my pupils time traveled, while your heart played the role of the time traveling machine.

Lastly, we fell in love with each other.
And I wonder if you contemplate why it is called falling as often as I.
I wonder if you find out the way I do every time we kiss.