he broke me more times than i can count,
more times than i'd like to say,
but i still blame myself.

i thought it was all my fault,
that i was a bad partner,
that i was the reason everything went wrong.

i think about him a lot.
i think about the scars he's left,
the few good memories there were of us,
that i loved him unconditionally,
his hugs, his touch, his lips, his hair
and the worst part is,
i miss it.

She left me with a bouquet of
flowers that never bloomed,
and a muse with bleeding
verses that never rhymed

At nights when her name
is dancing on my tongue,
I hunger for the cherries
she once promised to feed me

for

    once,

   i would

love

      to be

         the poem

and

     not

         the poet

"Girl, if you don't love yourself
you'll always be chasing people who don't love you either."

"She conquered her demons and wore her scars like wings"

Then :

Stigmas shredding this rough frame
Strips of blood
boiling, wanting to explode
I feel their anger
I hear their shrieks, their war cries
I don't listen.
These monsters and me
are at war.
                                                            ­                                                  Now :
                                                               ­    Soft pink caressing this canvas
                                                          ­                                          Calm rivers
                                                                ­             nurturing, bring it to life
                                                            ­                                I feel their peace
                                                           ­  I hear their hummings, their odes
                                                            ­                               I sing with them 
                                                           ­                 my stretch marks and me
                                                                ­                                           are one.

There's a razor beside the bed
It's pink
It's electric

The walls are gray
The walls are gray
The walls are gray
The curtain is white
And the walls are gray

Static is my vision
The walls are gray and static
The razor is pink and electric

There is no wind
There is no light
Warmth of body does not ignite

If the bed is white then what is I?
What is she?

If the walls are gray
And curtain is white
Razor, pink, electric, shines
Then what is I?
Then what is I?

My ears are tired