You ate my body like a commodity,
until I was nothing but skin and bones,
and then you used my bones as
materials further still.

Until I was nothing but empty
skin that you squeezed every
drop from—until there was
nothing left for you to take.

You see the world through dollar signs,
making every red flag shine green—
until you're blind to the way I bleed.

You can't miss what you never had—
So instead I yearn,
until by the heart's design
it pumps out tears and poisons my blood
stream.

Until the world stops turning,
I am a ghost left to linger
at all of my haunts.

She tried to grab my hand
to pull me away,
but my skin was so see-through
her fingers grasped air.

Life is divided into lights and darks,
but I lost my shadow—
a pile of memories left to settle
is all that remains.

She tried to lay me to rest,
but my bones are so weary
they crumble to dust,
slipping through her memory.

Until the sun stops rising,
I am a specter, left to
wander on empty plains.

You tell me it's better to quit while we're ahead,
but I'll keep going until you hate me to spend more time with you.

Some nights I wish I had a warm
body to hold,
or a soft voice that would whisper
words like lullabies to me.

Some nights, I yearn for soft fingers
lingering on my face,
or someone who won't mind that my touch is dry,
and my hands are the desert.

Some nights time is malleable and
endless without an anchor to pull me
back to Earth.

Some nights I want someone to
lay by my side so that even when
sleep is nowhere to be found,
at least loneliness isn't my sole companion.

Summer clings to her skin and
drips from her lips like a lovesong.

Each freckle that dusts her
face is a blessing from the
blazing sun.

Her hair falls down her back
in strawberry colored waves, each
gentle curl enticingly lovely.

She is beautiful as her skin grows
golden after every lick of heat—
blossoming in the Summer sun.

She grows steady and strong
like an oak tree, living every day
like she'll never have it again.

Sometimes, the darkness is not my friend,
but pins me to my bed with heavy hands.

We become uneasy companions
on a stormy sea—
the rest of the world sailing
smoothly on dreams.

Something about the night revels
in picking through my mind like a
filing cabinet—no method to the madness.

Sometimes I ask,
"Why will you not let me go?"

Sometimes the night answers:
"Because these hours are not your own to control."