open up your
veins show me
your blood all
I ever wanted
was to
breathe—you—in
baby make my
heart
stop

There is a difference between being right and being right. There's a difference between you and me, between this knife in my hand and the fist of yours. There's a difference between this bruise and that bruise, between this scar and that scar, between your promises and mine.
Remember when you said you were a man of your word?

TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL THAT STOLE YOUR HEART. TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL WHO GAVE IT BACK. TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL WHO RIPPED IT OUT. TELL ME ABOUT THE GIRL WHO RAN WITH IT, LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT. TELL ME ABOUT ME, ABOUT HOW I RUINED YOUR LIFE WITH POEMS AND SCARRED BODIES AND PANIC ATTACKS. TELL ME ABOUT HER, ABOUT HOW SHE DID NOT HAVE MY FEARS, MY PROBLEMS, MY THERAPY. TELL ME ABOUT HOW GOOD SHE WAS AND HOW HAPPY I MUST BE THAT YOU HAVE DOWNGRADED FROM THAT TO A GIRL LIKE ME. TELL ME ABOUT YOUR GOOD LIFE BEFORE ME, ABOUT THE DATES AND THE ***** AND THE ONE NIGHT STANDS. TELL ME ABOUT HOW YOU USED TO LIKE THE TRAIN UNTIL I GOT AN ANXIETY ATTACK WHEN WE WENT ON IT.
I AM SORRY FOR RUINING YOUR LIFE WITH MY PROBLEMS. I AM SORRY FOR ALLOWING YOU TO LOVE ME.

i
                                                         am
                                                                                                                  not
                                                           a
case
                                                          to
                                                                                                                 crack.


i
                                                         am
                                                                                                                  not
                                                     someone
you
                                                    introduce
                                                                                                                  to
                                                        your
mother.


i
                                                         am
                                                                                                                  not
                                                   someone
you
                                                        love
                                                                                                                  with
                                                        the
lights
                                                         on.

and what about all the times you kissed me like it was worth going to hell for?
i know what your lips taste like
i know how your beating heart feels against my hand, my lips, my cheek
i know the way you gasp surprised when i kiss you
as if you can't believe i did that
even though i have done it so many times before
and its 1:36 in the morning and your towel doesn't smell like you anymore
i cried when you told me you loved me
i cried when i didn't say it back
i cried when i didn't say it back that night after you ****** me
i cried when you told me i was your hurricane
i didn't cry when you left
you left me an empty bottle of wine and a note
"this is what i drank the day you told me my lips tasted like you"

AND YOU CAN SAY SO MANY THINGS ABOUT ME BUT YOU CANNOT SAY I DIDN'T LOVE YOU BECAUSE I STAYED WITH YOU EVEN WHEN YOU SET ME ON FIRE
AND WHAT ABOUT THAT TIME YOU RIPPED MY HEART OUT
AND WHAT ABOUT THAT TIME YOU SMILED AT ME JUST BEFORE YOU KISSED HER
AND YES I HAVE ISSUES BUT SO DO YOU WHEN YOU ENGULF ME IN FLAMES AND TRY TO EXTINGUISH EVERY LAST PART OF ME THAT YOU EVER TOUCHED
AND EVEN THOUGH I KNOW THE FEEL OF YOUR HAND COMING IN CONTACT WITH MY FACE I'D STILL LOVE TO BE THE ROOFTOP YOU GO TO WHEN YOU WANT SILENCE
BUT I STOPPED BEING GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU THE MOMENT I CHOKED ON THE PRIDE YOU MADE ME SWALLOW

to the people who have seen more blades in blood splattered bathroom sinks than those in shoulders, i say
you beautiful bright light; you founder of cities that celebrate; you body full of black and ivory piano keys—
cover yourself in positivity, stop cutting yourself and start cutting strings with those who make you, with those who look at you like you're something to be ashamed of.
somewhere, in a hospital, a woman dies while giving birth. you tell yourself that she is stronger than you, more deserving of a life, that you would want to change places.
don't.
death of others doesn't justify yours.
to the people who have seen more blades in blood splattered bathroom sinks than those in shoulders, i say
i’m sorry.

i said i'm sorry i said i wanted to come home i said i loved you the world is so ****** up why the **** did i leave you why in hell did i make you leave why did we paint the kitchen wall yellow it looks horrible. **** this **** this all. baby i want you back--i love you; i love the way you smell like fire, i love the way you used to look at me when you thought i wasn't looking at you (i am always looking at you); darling i love you like i loved the way my mother would watch my father come home from the gym all sweaty and gross and would tell him she'd still choose him over brad pitt even if he looked and smelled like this all the time, and i love you more than my dad loved my mother every time she told him that and **** sweetheart--****** ******* hell i do not know why i didn't look at you more often or why i didn't bring you breakfast in bed or why i smiled at that boy at the subway station two days ago (maybe because he had your eyes) and i smoked hundred-and-seventy-two cigarettes since you left even though i quit two years ago and i spent all my money on things i'd never let you buy because "they were useless" and ****, sweetheart, i miss you and i don't know why i didn't appreciate the way you sung under the shower (very out of tune) because every morning i wait for you to start singing that ******* jason mraz song (i'm yours) before i realise you're not going to ******* sing it because you're not ******* here and you're not ******* mine (i'm still yours).

Said boys are usually found in nightclubs, where they’ll grab your waist and whisper in your ear but six months later you’ll find yourself drunk texting them that you miss them and they won’t respond.

2. Said boys walk like fire and look like they’re burning, ashes trailing behind them and you, too, will be nothing but a burnt out shell when they’re done with you, honey.

3. Said boys draw patterns on the small of your back and when they have left, their touches will have sunken into your skin and left scars deep beneath it.

4. Said boys call you sweetheart, look at you like you hung the moon, smile at you like you’re everything, everything, everything—

5. Said boys claw out your heart with blunt fingers, plant seeds of insecurity in between your ribs, call you broken after they have crushed every bone in your body.

6. Said boys hand you drinks and see your acceptance as an open invitation to ruin you.

7. Said boys will always ruin you.  

8. Said boys like short dresses in ruby red, like blood, like blood, like blood.

9. Said boys may act like they’re kissing your body but they’re looking for weak spots with their mouths.

10. Said boys know your mother raised you well, know you will not cry over a man when you’ve been through worse, know you are strong—

11. Said boys know your father gave you a pocket knife, know the ****** 101 he gave you when you turned thirteen.

12. Said boys will not follow you in their cars, will not corner you in an alleyway, will not walk too close behind you on the sidewalk.

13. Said boys will take you on dates and kiss you after the fourth, said boys will take it slow, said boys will text you good morning beautiful’s and call ******* making love.

14. Said boys will not look like their shoulders are too weak, or their voices too quiet.

15. Said boys will make sure no monster can enter your bed but them.

16. Said boys will make you thank them for it.

17. Said boys like it when you smile at them, like an open invitation to let them ruin you.

18. Said boys will always ruin you.

In this world, I am a gun
and you a letter unsent.
Imagine me on the right
side of the bed saying I love you.
Does it hurt?

In this world, I am a car
and you a gunshot.
All you ever do is leave and darling,
I’m sick of being your runaway car.

In this world, I am a crime-scene
and you have always
treated me like a case to crack.
I am not a film noir; I know you
know how to appreciate a good mystery.

In this world, I am a tectonic plate
and you fog so thick you can’t
see your own hands even when
you hold them right in front of your face.
Can you see me leave?

In this world, I am blood
and you salt water in my lungs.
Imagine me on the right
side of the bed saying I love you.
Does it hurt?

my mother told me never to light matches around boys who smell like fire and look like smoke
don't go for boys with shoulders not strong enough to carry you home
don't go for boys with voices not loud enough to scream i love you
when i was younger, we created a happy place in my mind to visit after nightmares
you're in my nightmares now--yet
--you are in my happy place
correction: you are my happy place
and the sky cries but i don't think it misses you as much as i do
remember when you told me i could have you as long as i wanted? well tell me
HOW CAN I HAVE YOU IF YOU'RE GONE
HOW CAN I WATCH YOUR EYELIDS FLUTTER WHEN YOU DREAM IF YOU'RE NOT HERE NEXT TO ME i hate you

I want you to stop talking about beautiful people like you are not one of them. I want you to look at yourself and smile and think about the ocean, how I loved you more than I loved myself. After this, there will be no more echoes. After this, there will be no more staying. I don't think I will continue to try an write you down in poems. I don't think I will wait up for you when I reach the border. You're a ******* tidal wave. A gunshot straight to the core and I hold my breath but fall apart anyway. You claw your way out of my ribcage like I am temporary, like you haven't kissed truths and secrets into the pale of my wrists. You were never that fond of my fire, but even when you realised all I've ever been is ice cold your hands still trembled when you'd come too close. And everything without you is quiet like the h in honest and the sounds you didn't make when you left. I love you. I thought the bruises you left on my hipbones implied you felt the same, but I'm not sure anymore. I am no longer myself. I handed you a knife so you could cut me open and into pieces, rearrange me any way you'd prefer but all you did was take it and stare at your hands like they weren't yours. Hit me with a closed fist and let me pretend it's your heartbeat. Tear me open until I'm nothing but truths, until I'm nothing but fire, until I'm nothing. Remember those nights when we'd stare at a clouded sky and you'd pretend to point out the stars? I'm different now. My bones don't break as easily as they did back then. You see, I still carry around the double edged knife in my left pocket, I still act like you were here once, I still act like I used to be good enough.

I'm telling you:
         There must be a way out of here.
I love you with burnt fingertips, with chewed off nails and worrying frowns asking if maybe maybe maybe you could come and fix me.
Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever make it back home.

There's not much I can give you besides twelve suicide attempts and a scarred body.
Flowers don't grow near me. Flowers don't grow in me.
I've never been good with words, but you are a case unsolved, you are stubble-burn on sunday mornings.

Most days I am certain I could love you to ruins.
Most days my skin is too tight for me to move, most days my lungs don't accept oxygen, most days my eyes don't know how to stay closed and
I keep seeing things I don't want to see.
Most days I wonder when I stopped being a city and became an exit wound.

i am so far gone
i do not know the difference between your name and a prayer
my words get lost in the wind
in the storm
in your storm
i am ***** from crawling through the mud of your heartbreak
i am aching because your wind always blows the wrong way
i am soaked and i don't know if these are tears or raindrops
i am a wooden cabin and your rain is seeping through the cracks

Please stop with all your leaving. I'm scared of all your constant moving on. I never said anything about the way you tried to find God between my temples but today is the day you stop mourning me because, darling, I'm not even dead yet. And I know you feed on me, I know you've never done anything else than believing you're not good enough, humble humble boy, but I can tell you that the fires you started will do more damage than you anticipated.
I'm more than okay with that. I wrote you a letter once or twice saying that should I not **** myself I would gladly be killed by you. When you talk, sometimes I wish I was deaf so I'd have a reason to study your lips. You have no idea how your touch feels.
I never asked you about the things you talk about in your sleep. I never asked you about the pleas for fire.
In the end, I'll still be the match that didn't light and I don't know where you will be.
Tell me all of your fears. I'm only scared of you. Of you never loving me like this. Never like this.

i never really liked that new haircut
or the way you smelled like her perfume
or the way you looked at me
like you were a crimescene and i the criminal
i tried to talk to the monster under my bed
i grabbed its ankles and dragged it from beneath the mattress so i could study its features
it was your face i was staring at

my third kiss was with a boy
his eyes were the colour of five suicide attempts and a dead father
and his lips tasted like he had been hurt twenty-seven times too many
he told me he loved me after five months of being together
his lips tasted different after it
i never said it back

It's midnight.
Outside, people are singing a birthday song for one of my neighbours.
Inside, I have been taking an ice cold shower for over an hour because it's just as painful as cutting open my skin when I turn the water scalding hot every fifteen minutes, but it doesn't leave any scars.
My phone died. The shrink was trying to talk me out of it and into my own bed, promised he wouldn't leave, wouldn't leave me alone, not him, not this time. He said he would help me through it. I believed him. Still do. I guess I'll find out if that's stupid. Later. When he leaves.
Skin was just talking. She's good at that. She's always been good at that. The way her words wrap around everything bad in my head and suffocate it makes me want to curl up and sleep everything off.
Lumberjack just... just was. I don't know how he knew. He just did. Sometimes I wish I could talk to him.
But there's a reason I pray cold showers will mimic the rain and wash everything away. There's a reason for every faint line on my legs, my arms, my stomach.
I say: Crying is for the weak.
Shrink says: Crying is for those who deal. It's for people who've been strong.
I deal in my own way. It's the only way that seems to work. The only way I can think of. Nothing soothes better than red drops and raindrops.
I should crawl into bed. I should never come out again. I should die here, on the bathroom floor, surrounded by tiles and soap and cold water. I should die somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere private. I should seek out an empty spot and slit my wrists. How do you slit your second wrist, anyway? I read that most people pass out before they can make the most damaging cut.
No. I should crawl into bed. There's no reason for thirteen. There's no reason for blood, or death, or my mother crying. There's no reason for flowers or funerals or picking out your best suit.

It's 1AM. I'm still in the shower.

look,
she will never tell you her deepest secrets or kiss you quite long enough to feel whole. and some nights she will sneak out of bed and yell when you follow her, because there are nights when she needs to breathe and there have been too many fires too close to her throat lately.
let her go. tell her you know about thunderstorms, about storms so rough you seem to topple over at the thought of them—tell her, you too, have felt the earth shake beneath the soles of your feet a few times too many to stay still.
you don’t have to kiss her scars. you just have to kiss her.
boy, on good days, take her by her bruised hands and lead her to a place where you have always found sanctuary. kiss her then. she will trace your bones with her tongue and lay her hand on your chest to check if you’re hollow. kiss her then. sometimes she will smoke to fill herself with something else than pain. kiss her then.
look: when she trembles so loud you can hear her empty bones rattle, place one hand in her hair and one on her hip and kiss her. kiss her until she stills. being an avalanche like her is exhausting, but sometimes she just won’t know how to stop it.
when she falls asleep on the couch again, know that she is not avoiding you. she’s avoiding the emptiness of having you so close she doesn’t know if she’s allowed to touch yet. she doesn’t know if she earned it yet. and when you see her do her workout routine twice, it’s because the couch is giving her trouble sleeping—even more than the bed did. she hopes she will be too tired to care this way.
take her by the hand again. take her to bed. place her head on your chest. show her it’s alright to touch.
when she tells you she’s been counting the cracks in the ceiling because her head is filled with ideas of death and despair, repaint it. tell her this is a new colour for new thoughts and new beginnings. cover her eyes. kiss her eyelids. tell her they don’t always filter light but they don’t have to. tell her it’s alright to be an avalanche. tell her it’s alright to be an avalanche.
but remember this: when you are ready to fall to your knees, she will be there. when you feel the earth tremble beneath your feet, she will be there. and when your hands shake so much you don’t think you can hold her anymore, she will be there.
there is so much more to her than just something to hold. she’s not just this anger, she’s not just this closeness in her veins that makes you forget the way home, she is so much more than just gritting teeth and letting it go.
when you are ready to fall, she will always be there to catch you. remember: she knows the ripple of hurt that tears through your body so violently—she knows how it feels. she has felt it herself. when you tremble, she will make you still. when you tremble, she will make you still.
this is not just about her. this is about you, too. about the cracks in your ceiling. about your avalanche. realise that she understands. when you lay your head on her chest to check if she is hollow, realise she knows exactly what you’re doing. when you ask her to pass the cigarette, realise that she too, knows how it feels to fill yourself with something besides pain.
oh sweetheart, when the vastness of her love makes you agoraphobic, she will take you to the place she loves most and kiss you. she will kiss you breathless. don’t you know it’s in her blood to take care of you?

I learned to make paper stars from the scraps of skin I pulled off. I am beautiful now.

THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS LEAVING—THERE IS ONLY FIRE NOW. CALL ME THE BUILDER OF CITIES THAT DROWN. CALL ME THE FOUNDER OF THE NOTHING. I DON’T CARE. I DON’T CARE.
I STOPPED CARING ABOUT YOUR TREES AND ROOTS AND FLOWERS THE DAY YOU TOLD ME I WOULD NEVER BE MORE THAN HANDS HELD UP IN DEFENSE. THE DAY YOU TOLD ME I WOULD NEVER LOVE ANYTHING MORE THAN I LOVED THE SUN.
LET ME TELL YOU THIS, BABY, I AM NOT DEAD. I AM NOT DEAD. I AM NOT DEAD. I AM NOT DEAD. NO MATTER HOW MANY PEOPLE YOU LIKE TO TRICK INTO THINKING I AM, OR WAS, OR WILL BE. I AM NOT. I AM NOT A PUPPET, EITHER, AND EVEN IF I WAS, DARLING, YOU WOULD NOT BE THE ONE HOLDING ONTO THE STRINGS. NOT ANYMORE. NOT ANYMORE.
I AM DIFFERENT NOW; STRONGER, HANDS LESS LIKELY TO GRAB AND HOLD, KNEES MORE LIKELY TO KEEP ME FROM FALLING. I’VE BEEN TAUGHT HOW TO STEP AWAY FROM BEING A PERSON; I’VE BEEN TAUGHT HOW TO BECOME SOMETHING LESS, SOMETHING MORE.

steal the pause that stops me from bleeding all over your poetry
i am a misplaced smiley face at the end of a horrible message, he
is the sun, his eyes--
(eyefuck me with your deepest brown, autumn-eyed boy)
--he is all.
he is a lunar eclipse and i the ******* who stared unprotected anyway because **** me
if i was going to be blind i'd prefer to be blinded by him
if i was going to get hurt i'd prefer to get hurt by him

i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like ocean-breathing. quite like soft
hearts and softer fingers. quite like hands
strong and hair pulled.
kiss me until i forget her name. push me
on my knees in the hallway—breathe me;
breathe me; breathe me.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like “take it off”. quite like “****, ****,
you’re—”. quite like “how much **** would
you get for this hickey?”.
give me mouth to neck to hands to back.
give me soft, give me softer, harder. give
me all teeth, all fingernails, all scratch and
no soothe.
i’m not drunk but i might as well be; you
have never been an instrument i knew how
to play well enough to perform. i’m on my
knees and then not anymore and i’m not
one for praying but i feel like this is the
moment i ask god when i turned into
something so close to an exit wound
even my mother wouldn’t recognise me
anymore.
i don’t think there are things quite like this:
quite like trembling so hard the china might
scatter on the floor like ashes. quite like
“i’m not just using you”. quite like whispers
so soft they seem to go up in smoke.
he kisses my neck and i go weak in the knees
but i feel like i would be strong enough to
withstand a hurricane like this. he kisses
my neck and his hand is on my hip and
i think about how sometimes a flood brings
more than it takes away and i think
that’s you. i think that’s you. sometimes
i wonder if i could be like that for you
too.
you see, i don’t think there are things
quite like this:
quite like shaking but still. quite like
cold but willing. quite like you.

The days you're gone I think about gravity, about tectonic plates,
about fog so thick you can't see your own hands even when you're holding them right in front of your eyes.
I think about you, not just unable but also unwilling to consume me whole.
I think about my mother, cigarette smoke and lonely days, cuddles with children too big to still be in bed with her.
I think about deserted islands, car crashes and how sometimes life crashes down around you like the remnants of a 747.
I think about echoes, about shaking hands and trembling voices
and I think about her, singing daughter's still until the ocean swallowed her whole.

you are a walking catastrophe

death in its most beautiful form---you

are a time-bomb,

those things you call eyes red and blue wires and when you come close enough

i can hear it ticking at the back of your throat

two years ago you smiled at me (tick-tock-tick-tock, baby)

and you kissed my hand; said "darling---

---you taste like you need me"

and i said maybe but i meant yes and now i wish i had meant no

and now you are nothing but a countdown to self-destruction

the first word you said to me---darling

made me a ******* part of you

Sometimes I fear I am more scar
than skin. More salt than water.
More gun than girl. I play the
piano; black and ivory softly so
you can follow me back to the
cave, to the gardens, to the water.
My body was not touched by
the boy, was not touched by the
girl that ripped out my heart and
ate it. I checked for fingerprints
on the side of my breast, my hip-
bone,the inside of my thighs—
nothing.
Their hands never leave traces,
never leave proof that one day
someone was brave enough to
touch the hills and valleys of my
body. Rachel Wiley said: *******
me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
He said: I would do it if you lost
weight. He turns off the light, but
I do not blame him. If he hadn't
reached for it first, I would have.
I keep on my T-shirt, make sure
his hands don't wander to places
I try too hard to forget are there.
They call me fat—I make jokes
about it so they won't. My mother
tells me that it's important to love
yourself even if you don't want
to. I say yes, then count the cuts
on my thigh, then smile.
RACHEL WILEY SAID:
******* ME DOES NOT
REQUIRE AN ASTERISK.
LOVING ME IS NOT A FETISH.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY
YOU COULD THINK THAT
FINDING ME ATTRACTIVE
IS SOMETHING TO BE
ASHAMED ABOUT. SOME-
THING YOU WOULDN'T
TELL YOUR MOTHER. YOU
CAN TOUCH ME IN THE
BEDROOM BUT REFUSE
TO HOLD MY HAND. I AM
NOT EXTRA THICK
WRAPPING FOR YOUR ****.
I AM NOT SOMETHING
YOU  LIE ABOUT TO YOUR
FRIENDS. LOVING ME IS
NOT SOMETHING TO HIDE
FROM YOUR SISTER.
LOVING ME IS NOT
SOMETHING TO HIDE.
It is 11:31 PM. I am the girl they
like to **** but not the girl they
like to have wedding pictures of,
hanging on the kitchen wall.
He says: I would do it if you lost
weight.
I say: I would do it if you stopped
acting like I am something to
be ashamed of.
Rachel Wiley said: *I say: “I am
fat.” He says: “No, you are
beautiful.” I wonder why I can
not be both.

"I think this one is broken."

"Okay I got it, you have to be in the ******* thing."

"I'll **** your **** for 25 cents."

"Why do they have a helicopter?"

[loud breathing noises]

"I touched it and it ******* almost—"

"B, you're typing really loud."

[C softly singing 'war, what is it good for.']

"Let's get out of here."

"Dude, we've been out of there for ages. Where are you?"

"Should we run him over? Should we run him over? Should we—Yes, okay, we ran him over."

[A singing songs no one recognises.]

"That's not our car. That's not our car. Why are you in that car? Did you steal someone's car?"

"B, I am in lesbians with you."

THIS IS NOT A LOVE POEM
THIS IS A POEM ABOUT HOW YOU RUINED ME
THIS IS A POEM ABOUT HOW YOU SET ME ON FIRE, ABOUT HOW YOU TRIED TO EXTINGUISH EVERY LAST PART OF ME THAT YOU EVER TOUCHED---THIS
THIS IS A POEM ABOUT HOW YOU MADE ME FEE LIKE I DIDN'T HAVE ANYTHING TO MISS AND THIS BABY, IS A POEM ABOUT HOW I DIED IN YOUR ARMS AND YOU DROPPED ME IN ACID
THIS IS A POEM ABOUT HOW YOU TEMPTED ME WITH WORDS ABOUT LIFE AND SMILES (AND MAYBE HAPPINESS, REMEMBER WHEN YOU PROMISED ME HAPPINESS)
BUT MOST OF ALL, THIS IS A POEM ABOUT ME AND SEVENTY-THREE MESSAGES I STILL HATE YOU FOR NOT REPLYING TOO EVEN THOUGH I NEVER ACTUALLY SENT THEM

There’s a difference between red and black.
If he hurts you, you should’ve seen it coming.
What were you wearing? What were you wearing?
They rearrange your vocabulary until you can’t remember thank you and help me are not synonyms.
If he hurts you, you should’ve seen it coming.
What were you wearing?
You can fall, but if some man doesn’t hear it, you didn’t make a sound.
What were you wearing?

I didn’t realise I was a blaze until I was twelve and the blood boiled beneath skin until I cut it open—(free free free free free free)—and my best friend asked me what is this before saying I love you over and over until she cried. I didn’t cry. I haven’t cried in a long time.

I have been hating my pulse for so long I do not remember how it felt to be grateful for the thud of my heart—I wish there was a wikihow on how to ruin your body in the most satisfying way possible. I would read that until it was burned into my eyelids, I would whisper it until my mother still hears it years after I’m gone, words poured into the walls of my childhood bedroom.

I am more than nine cuts because they think I want attention
I am more than a left shopping cart in an empty car park
there's something behind these walls
my mother used to tell me not to drown in the body of my lover because no matter how much you love, baby, no matter how much you want it -- you will never be able to breathe under water
I am not in love
I am not someone you kiss back
don't think I won't trace the map with my lips until I find your roots, until I can **** out all the memories you buried in the ground
I taste you
you taste like a battlefield
I wish I could **** the war out but all I can is breathe smoke into your lungs
all I can is breathe
and my heart, baby, my heart will never stop beating but I have to keep in mind that it does not beat for anyone but me
no matter how hard it works when you're near, no matter how much it wants you -- it beats for me
but that doesn't mean I can't capture you in it
paint you with angry strokes of grey and black because that's all we are
that's all we've ever been

This is not about him. This is about me. This is about the girl who told, about the girl who watched, and smiled, and called me her best friend and then turned around and just talked. This is about the girl that talked.
This is about burning letters and wearing hoodies and fallen leaves on the floor and New Year’s calls and tears. This is about fire. It’s also about me.
Seven days. Seven days. I told her on the fifth and she told her boyfriend on the sixth.

Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.

                                                         I won’t.

I am not interested in more lies, in more *******, in more apologies. I am not interested in you. I stopped being interested in you the moment your ******* boyfriend told my not-boyfriend that he and I were a thing. When did that choice become yours? WHEN DID THAT CHOICE BECOME YOURS?

CALL ME A ***** FOR DOING THIS. CALL ME A ***** FOR RUINING BUILDINGS AND BUILDING CITIES AND MAKING THIS ABOUT FIRE. CALL ME A ***** FOR MAKING THIS A BLAZE. YOU DID NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO. YOU DID NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO LIGHT THE MATCH.
STAY AWAY FROM THE CIGARETTES, STAY AWAY FROM THE CIGARETTES. CALL ME A *****, CALL ME A ******* *****. I DON’T CARE. I DON’T CARE. THIS WAS NOT YOUR CALL TO MAKE.
I WOULD HAVE LIT THE MATCH WHEN I WAS READY. I WOULD HAVE LIT THE ******* MATCH WHEN I WAS READY, BECAUSE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY ******* LIFE, DARLING, THIS WAS ABOUT ME.

YOU MADE IT ABOUT HIM. YOU MADE IT ABOUT HIM. I DID NOT CONSENT TO HAVING THREE PEOPLE IN A RELATIONSHIP, SO WHY ARE YOU HERE? ACTUALLY, I DID NOT EVEN CONSENT TO HAVING A RELATIONSHIP.

YOU LIT THE FIRE, YOU LIT THE ******* FIRE AND I AM DONE. PAINT MY NAME IN BLOOD ON THE REMNANTS OF THE CITIES I BURNED. I DON’T CARE.

THIS WAS NOT ABOUT ME. THIS WASN’T EVEN ABOUT HIM. YOU—YOU MADE THIS ABOUT YOU.