One day I will look in the mirror and find a stranger

There are studs of silver all over my room from when I was younger
and all I wanted to do was shove unknown metals through my skin
and call it rebellion.

There are black nailpolish bottles, and scissors for cutting my own hair
and face paint for when I wanted nothing else but to look like Bowie
I am not a normal teenage girl, and I think I guess I'm an adult now.

I kissed boys on the mouth when I was wishing they'd kiss my soul
I tried to drown myself in the bathtub until I figured out that I couldn't breathe-
and that I wanted to.

There is nothing poetic about the way that I want so badly on Saturday nights
to cut into my own skin with whatever sharp object I can find
There is nothing poetic about how I haven't left the house in three months except
to go buy hair dye so I don't have to recognize myself anymore.

I don't find poetry in the stars anymore because they remind me too much of you.

I looked in the mirror today and found a stranger
and nothing about this is poetic.

the harsh reality of life is that everything moves on
and for things to move on, first other things have to end

people leave;
they leave you and they leave places and they leave things behind
and sometimes it's messy, and you'll cry and hug your pillow at night
because it's the only thing that has stayed
and people may leave places, and maybe you'll be a person leaving a place
but you'll be finding a new one

everyone finds their way, and an end is just a new beginning
because that is the true meaning of moving on

and maybe you'll look around your new house in a new city or even state or country
and you'll find something; a letter maybe, from a person who left
or a bracelet, or a picture- anything that holds a memory
and you'll remember them, and it won't be because they left
it will be because they moved on, and luckily they left you with a piece of them
because we are all made up of fragments of other people and places and things
and no matter how hard we try to piece them all together quickly and with shaking hands,
we can't

and sometimes the puzzles that are our souls will be messy,
and you'll cry and you'll hug a new person
that hasn't left yet because you're missing pieces you think you'll never find

but one day you'll complete the puzzle
and it won't be the end
it will be moving on

never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she’ll end up caring for you more than she cares about poetry
and that will mean destruction for both of you
she will compare you to the stars and the breath out of her own lungs
and she will count the minutes until she can be with you next
this is entirely troublesome, especially if you don’t feel the same way
although if you don’t, a heartache will be cause for more inspiration
I suppose love is a win win situation for writers-
fall in love, you have inspiration
fall out of it, you have inspiration

never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
she will get to attached
she will love you too much
she will fall in love with the curve of your spine
and the form of your smile
and the structure of your bones
and the placement of your words on her mouth
and the way your hair falls floppily out of place
and the way you don’t love her at all

never fall in love with a writer
never fall in love with the girl who writes poems about you
never fall in love with me

Tell me what you know and don't hold back.

I want to know the secrets
that shade your soul.

I want you to love my darkest hours
and the days I want so badly to disappear.

Please don't make me regret loving you,
make me regret lusting after you.

Make me regret the decision to stay
and please regret your decision to stray.

You told me you loved me when you were drunk
and I guess I believed you because whiskey is
a sort of truth serum.

You know that well enough now from all the nights
I'd stumble home and into your arms,
telling you everything through teardrops and
cigarette breath.

I don't know why you still loved me after that.

And I'm starting to think that maybe you didn't.

Roll of thunder, hear my cry. I will love you till I Die