I can write you into poetry,
breathe your name in my sleep.
But my words are hollow,
and my eyelids are so heavy.
See,
I didn't want to write another poem
about you
or love at all,
for that matter.
But its so hard
to not feel like
a character in a *******
John Green novel
when you talk about her
And I can't help thinking
I can love you so much better.
I don't think she notices
your eyes when you laugh,
or your one crooked tooth,
or that that's not even your natural hair color,
and I don't think she notices
when you're upset
or if she does
she doesn't care
And it pains me to think that
you love so fully
and completely,
like Pudge,
but I am not your Alaska.
And I can't help thinking
you deserve someone
who will love you like Hazel Grace,
who will see constellations in your face
and won't laugh when you cry.
But now matter how many cliches
I write down
or if I'm sleeping beauty,
I can't help feeling
that somewhere along the line
I got stage fright and couldn't play
Augustus right,
like I'm the only character
who forgot the words,
and that's stupid because
I'm supposed to be a main character,
but somehow I got mixed up
with the background.
So I don't know if this is my fault
for mistaking myself
for someone more important,
or if I'd even make a difference
if I was

I met a man in the sky last night;
we drank poison in the moonlight.
We walked together, hand in hand,
but he was above; left no prints in the sand.
I met a man in the ocean last night;
he danced on the waves in shadows of light,
delight turned to despair, as the morning came,
I wanted to drown in the waves of shame.
I met a man in the desert last night;
he promised me forever, to never leave my sight.
But the bitter wind had forsaken us,
and he disappeared in a cloud of dust.
I met a man in my dreams last night,
I didn't seen him enter, not by foot or flight.
He told me he was sick, and began to cry,
and in my arms I watched him die

The words pump out faster than the blood in your cheeks,
sentences imprint themselves on your body like scars.
You're the murderer and the victim,
the gun and the exit wound,
you did this to yourself.

A towering sky line miles away,
the silhouette of a broken promise.
Buildings stare you down,
streetlights lift you up.
The city of insomnia and dreams,
you will always return to

you are inches
i measure in miles
and i keep pretending
you're giving years
but its only days
and i keep taking hours
when you give me seconds
because i want a lifetime
while you want one night

most days my ribs
feel more like prison bars
than support structures
barricading my heart
from blooming

you are an artist
the way you break
and reassemble me
so many times
until i begin to disintegrate
in your hands
and sometimes i swear
i feel every minuscule cell
slip through your fingers
and you don't even feel it
because you are too distracted
with the bending of my bones
to care about the loss
of a few teeth
or fingernails
in the process