Truth is you
weren't blameless
I saw your eyes
flash red that night
the fire in your palms
wouldn't burn out.

Together we were
a suicide pact,
there was something
about the drug in
each others eyes
that made us want
to overdose.

We itched like
razor blades
on each others skin,
our tongues a noose,
heartbeats fast,
furious.

My hands bled love
my knuckles
bruised like skies
I puked up every word
until I could finally
say goodbye.

Covered in
hickeys
and cigarette smoke
- art is
interpretation
and I
am a masterpiece

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

I SLAMMED THE DOOR SO HARD, THAT IT COULD HAVE FALLEN OFF IT'S HINGES,
THE SAME WAY I COLLAPSE TO MY KNEES SOMETIMES.
I SLAMMED IT WITH THE KIND OF FORCE THAT IT  TAKES ME TO LOVE, AND GOD KNOWS I LOVE WITH THE POWER OF EARTHQUAKES AND TORNADOS COMBINED.