He doesn't burn photographs
He doesn't join therapy sessions
He doesn't smoke too many cigarettes
Nor he drown himself into alcohol
He scratches his wounds daily
And never let them heal
He doesn't try to get rid of the pain
Instead he let it grow on him
He waters the seed of sorrow with his tears
He feeds it with the manure of old memories
He takes it to sleep with him
And nurtures it in himself
Till the moment when every single drop of his blood gets replaced by this pain
Until his fragile heart can bear no more
And his soul starts overflowing with emotions
That's when he dip his pen into this pain
And empty his heart on a piece of paper
He bares his soul for us to feel
He creates poetry that the world would cherish for centuries to come

Morning frost
lays crystal sheets,
steaming in
the early heat.

Autumn breathing
steep release,
surrendering
last leafy green;
final piece
of creaking tree
won't let go
so easily.

Achieved by
a tease of
frigid degrees,
reason's razor
sharp, now cleaves
between stability
besieged by treason
and terminal
velocity agreed,
competing speed
descending free;
earthen dirt
eagerly pleas
and receives;
turbulently earning
unpredictability,
it careens.

A final sigh,
falling relief,
I hold my breath,
freeze expectantly;
winter seized
as seasons leave
seed buried
somewhere
six feet deep
beneath dry bones
and brittle debris,
lost in all
of eden's weeds,
covered in
a snowflake sea,
icy geometry impedes.

Heart, a beat,
syllable speaks,
rhythm repeats
infrequently;
silence broken
for a moment,
it meekly greets
and peaks,
exhausting extreme
expediently;
though gravity
its greedy thief,
time denies
my soul to keep;
not dying yet
in faded defeat,
mortality has
still not ceased;
just enough
life left to lead.

Still hope to be
and blessedly believe-
a flame to flicker
in the breeze
when you need
the light to carve
through dark to see,
if only ever our meeting
but fleeting and
happening briefly.

Dark circles
and a ******
of crows' feet creased,
show me deprived
of sleep, fatigued
on the eve of
dreams, leaping;
as the sun sets
in the west weeping,
reflects again,
blinding iris
rising east,
horizon breached
again eventually;
coronary arteries
won't concede
until this vessel
bleeds empty.

i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.

When I was sixteen I fell in love with a girl
Who looked like autumn
Long wavy hair the colour of maple leaves
Freckles on her cheeks scattered like raindrops on grass
She felt like home in ways I could never understand

Rose petal lips and silk skin
She had silver knives hidden as collarbones in her chest
They didn’t hurt me until she left
That summer I broke my own heart for her

Falling in love with her was easy
But accepting it was so much harder
She made me feel things I wasn’t supposed to feel

The first time she kissed me was magic
She ghosted her lips across mine
And I didn’t know it had happened
Until it was over
I can still taste the coffee from her lips

My autumn girl
Your heart was filled with wild flowers
You said you’d never change the world
But in one summer you changed mine
To this day I don’t remember how to get back to where I was without you