I, of course, was done with you
My poetry, on the other hand
She had, some of her own plans
Her own things to say, her own hurt to bleed
I said okay, I’ll hold you, until we breathe

i used to think
my intimacy lied at the tips of your fingers
stimulated at the touch
but one night, i took my own
i asked them, why not?
they answered, as my legs spread apart, and away, from the thought of you, to the thoughts of myself.

I throw my almost lovers like crumpled paper in the corner of the room, I aim for the bin but lean ever so slightly to the side so it won't ever go in.

Tip toeing back every now and then to un-crumple them and read through every crease of what could've been,
of course, its no good, again.

Thrown right back into the pile of whats no good, but here I have a fragile heart that wants the creases to change the story.

Here I am,
Here I am, wishing you would.

I'm your least favourite dish on the table, and i'm the one your mother makes everyday,
knowing one day you'll willingly pick up the spoon and
take a bite of whats good,
whats always been good for you.
Take a bite, go on.

giving you my love on a platter
was like
feeding a child the age old truth
as he reaches out, for a young, sweet, sweet lie
what better does a child know anyway?

(she was your sweet lie, and now shes left you with tooth ache, it wont let you sleep, will it?)

It is an odd time, 3:39am, no words will suffice the hunger my heart explores, as it searches for ways to love again

I stood out, leaning over my balcony,
cigarette in hand, my fingers searching for something to hold, a little danger, a little danger
and I smile
I take a whiff of my solitude, and I smile at how much I enjoy it,
this pain,
the poetry,
the slow fast thoughts I cant put to paper, this vain attempt at loving myself,
yet I smile as I write this because,
baby listen,
it has nothing to do with you