here, take me.
have me.
break my body
and sip my blood
if it make you whole.

bury my remnants of lipstick stains
and somber poetry
underneath soil mixed with honey
when you're done.

Autumn, you do something to me.
You lighten up my heart and fill me with melancholy all the same.
You bring out my inner-romantic, and also remind me of my being alone.
Yet, you're my favourite. Always have been, and will always be.
If I could be a season, I'd only hope to be as lovely as you.
Let's take a midnight train ride to some place I haven't been to yet,
somewhere far away from here. Just you and I,
and a thermo filled with warm tea, a woven blanket,
a book of collected poetry, a few blank notepads
and the stillness of forgotten summer memories.

your silence is a room where dead hearts beat
foreign lips devour me through a straw

I slash my wrists
and let it fall
drip by drip
the words I bleed
become the words
of my book

blue veins
blood red
spool ribbon
remnants of emotions
I could never bring myself to tell you.

do you ever...feel the need to forget?
only to remember one day
only to remember one day when things are better.

do you ever...void out hope?
do you ever...avoid comfort?
do you ever...let yourself get fooled?
do you ever fool yourself?

I want to say...that I believe in you as much as I do in myself.
I want to say...I believe in you, and I
as one, as two.

I want to say...that I believe in all that I do
and all that you say and all that is yet to come

but I don't.

I made love to you for the first time on February fourteenth.
I haven't since then felt so artificial and impure.
I haven't since then felt so dishonest and so sure.
It wasn't love, it wasn't love, it wasn't love for me.
It wasn't love, it wasn't love, it wasn't love from me.

Ingenia humana .  6 0 7 P M .

sitting alone at a café. oblivious. observant.
staff meeting. **** talking. deceiving. polite.
you are perfect for me, to me, within.
i am shaky. i am nervous, constantly. all the time.
i am eager to speak to you. i am timid. come closer, kiss me.
i am not afraid to dip my slice of bread into the bowl of cream soup.
it makes it soft. i like it better when you're soft.
your smile makes it difficult to go further past the core of you.
are you happy? are you sad?
are you here? were you ever?
these questions. relentless. etc. etc.
i starve myself just to know how it feels.
i quench the thirst of my heart with the liquid of your poetry.
velvet wine and sea salt tears.
give me something to relate to.
is history recorded? does someone have a tape?
king of convenience, master of none.
my hair is not as long as i want it to be.
i'm not very fond of math. i'm not very fond of time.
i like your voice, it's slightly soothing.
writing is the only way i know.
the world is at large and i am so small.
i know very little if anything at all.
i don't want to go to work.
i want to lay down on the mud of the sea,
i want the dance of waves to set my spirit free.
read On the Road with me until we both fall asleep.
miércoles, miércoles, let me be.

She's the kind of girl who'd take a pregnancy test (after drinking two venti iced green teas) at a Starbucks restroom. She's the kind of girl who'd come close to overdosing on antioxidants and diet pills. She's the kind of girl who'd drink cheap velvet wine to the point of senselessness and obliviously karaoke to Radiohead's Jigsaw Falling Into Place at a distant city bar on an Autumn Tuesday night. She's the kind of girl who'd still be holding your wrong-doing hands underneath the sheets atop your bed at 4:03 AM.
She's the kind of girl I'd be if I had more of a heart and less of a mind.

There you go, again
******* your hand because you don't know how to love.

There you go, again
making poetry out of feelings you cannot bring yourself to understand.

There you go, again
getting upset over nothing, falling apart over everything,
getting upset over her heart.