There is something so special
about your second love.
I was taught
that the second does not hurt as badly
as the first,
but that was wrong.

When I think of his hand
tracing over the outline of my spine,
his fingers ghosting over my skin
in the same manner that his presence
hovered in the room
caused for my heart to shatter
at the same time as it did for my skin to erupt
into goosebumps.
I was angry because I felt that my body was betraying me
by enjoying his actions
while he painstakingly was leaving;
checking out mentally.

He told me that he loved me.
He lied.
I knew from the moment the words left his mouth
that they were empty,
and yet I allowed them to flow from my eardrums
straight into the base of my heart
to settle there, build a nest and remain
until he left.

Now I know that he will not return
and the nest will stay there
until another can come
to build a new one.

Pain is the gasoline
added to the flame
that allows me to
create.

A blackbird will perch herself
in the corner of my window;
her head tilting in curiosity
as his hand
will cause my cheek
to burn red.

What do birds think about?
What can they do?

Too often I will turn to the blackbird
to beg for her to save me
from the hell that I will not leave.
My heart
is encompassed by the cage that
will not allow for it to throb
with the pain that the rest of my body feels.

Will she help?
Will she hear my pleas?

He hears me.
He finds it amusing.

He will laugh as his fingers wrap
one by one around that birdie’s neck,
using the shards of my heart
to dig into the feathers
that adorn her body.

The blood is invisible
against the black of her back,
but a metallic stench
will fill the air.
It is something that will have sent me to the emergency room
one too many a time.

Her song will not be silenced,
although the beautiful melody that once
separated her beak;
a joyous sound,
is replaced by the snap of her bones.
It is not until this moment
that I will be pulled from my trance.

Once he is satisfied,
he will pluck a single feather
from the back of what is left of that little birdie,
and he will attach it to the quill
that he uses
to grant me my death wish;
loving him.

Two people
in the right place
at the right time
slowly begin
to fall in love.
It starts with a brush here,
a giggle there,
a kiss here,
a kiss there.

Falling with their hands
fumbling in an attempt to grasp
anything to hold them up
as they began to spiral
out of control.
When they need each other to breathe,
when not having the other results in
gasping for air
and being pulled under
by the tide.

As soon as one left,
it was as though their bones
were hollowed out and left with nothing
but the echoes of each other.

But what happens
when one does not return?
When one is left
struggling to breathe,
to wake,
to carry on?

One said that not everything
is meant to  last
while the other sat back
wincing at each spoken word.

Two people
in the right place
at the right time
quickly begin  
to fall out of love.
Because
are you truly feeling love
if your soul
isn’t being torn apart?

Why is it?
Why is it that we are willing to hurt ourselves so badly,
to allow our hearts to be broken time and time again?
To shatter who we are.
To spend our nights in nothing but silence
and the sniffles that break through the air.
What are we doing?
What gives them the right?
You run after the person senselessly,
blinded by the brutal truth.
Blinded by the fact that you are running not only
back towards them,
but running away from the truth.
The truth that they no longer want you.
And so you run.
You run, and you run
so hard and so far that your bones begin to melt into
the path that you so desperately try to stay on.
You’re killing yourself
with the need of a single person.
Find a way to let them go.
It will hurt.
It will feel as though your heart is being torn from your chest
and simply discarded.
Like a piece of trash.
But let them go.
Let them run and run,
because they will end up turning the tables.
They will realize who they have lost.
They will begin to run after you,
continuing the never ending chase.
But they’ll be too tired
because they were chasing the wrong person all along.

This pillow holds
all of the secrets
of all of my the tears
that stained the fabric
and the whispers
of all of the hopes and dreams
that have been shattered
by the one
who used to tell me
I could.

she's got a black heart,
a glimmer of hate in her eyes,
a mind twisted enough to shake the earth,
and one hell of a fake smile

There was a girl
Whose heart was in shambles.
She cried his name
To the heavens,
Wondering what she did wrong.
She cried his name
Into her pillow so often
That she was sure her tears
Left stains in the fabric
So deep they could tell stories.
Stories of how
Her heart was broken.
Stories of how
Everyone hurt her.
And stories of how
The only relief she could get
Was the blade at night.

This pattern continued
And her skin turned
From a blank canvas
Waiting to be worked on
To being covered
In an artwork all her own.
She blamed him.
She cursed his name while the blade
Made contact.
She needed anything to take her mind
Off of his name.

It wasn't until she met
/The one/.
/The one/ who took her mind away from all of the pain
And the suffering that he had bestowed upon her,
As though having offered her
A gift.
/The one/ who kissed the marks on her skin,
The very ones that she herself
Marked her body with.
/The one/ whose lips
Felt like milk and sugar against
Her damaged skin.
/The one/ who made her human again.
Who picked up her pieces and attempted to put them
Back together.
The only problem is,
Once something is broken,
Can it really be fixed once again?

you let them in
and they never fail
to break you

Children think that monsters are the things that hide under their beds,

The bogeyman,
Zombies,
Ghosts,
Demons,

But the thing that is the most upsetting is the fact that,

They grow up their whole lives a lie.
Those are not the real monsters.

No.

The real monsters reside inside of us,
In the back of our minds,

Eating at whatever happy thoughts we have.

We battle with them endlessly,
And sometimes they win.

So,

Stop checking under your bed, kids.
You won't find a thing.

Look in the mirror,
And look deep into your own eyes.

You're sure to see it
Sooner or later.

He asked me why.
Why I deny his attempt to help me.
Why I deny his efforts
To help salvage whatever humanity
That may be trapped in the cage
That contains my brain.

And my only reply,
As truthful as it came,
Was
*"When all of the flowers in a flower bed are dead,
What is the point
In continuing to water it?"

I hope you know
That you are the reason
For this ***** burning down my throat,
Making its way into
My pumping veins.
But the only thing
They seem to be pumping
Is the undeniable pain
Of you leaving me.

I hope that you know
That you are the reason
That I sit in my bedroom every night
Pondering the reason
For my seemingly pointless soul
To be treading this earth.

I hope you know
That you are the reason
That my skin has become a canvas
For the blades that rest
On the edge of my sink.

Vertical.
Horizontal.
Left.
Right.
Back.
Forth.
The blades run through
The thin layer of skin.
And all I can think about
As my blood hits the tile
Beneath my wobbling feet
Is that
I hope you know
That you are the reason.

People think
That when you break something,
It has to make a clang,
Or a rattle
Or a smash.
But
The night my heart broke,
No one heard a thing.

The sun still comes up and still sets every night.
The wind still blows the leaves from their residences in the trees.
Geese will still migrate every winter and return every fall.
The flowers and grass will continue to grow no matter how sad you are
or how badly you want to end your life.
The world doesn't know what despair feels like.
It will never understand your pain.
And even long after you're gone,
life will just always go on.

And as the tears streak her rosied cheeks,
Making tracks like streams cutting through forests,
She realized
That the only thing that hurt more than crying about someone else
Was crying about
How much
You hate yourself.

It was terrifying,
To see the light drained from her beautiful eyes,
To see the life leave her body
Even though she was not dead.

My tears,
when smudged against the ink on the page,
made for a rather unpleasant sight.

But,
my tears,
when smeared against the blood on my arm,
made for a much more beautiful picture.

It's really no wonder
why my skin became my diary.

Her voice brought back echoes
of empty rooms
and broken bones,

Of the never ending darkness
and inexplainable pain.

And yet, every night
before I closed my eyes,
I could hear her.

There she was,
and there she would stay.

Tell me it isn't hard
When your heart is lying on the floor
In a puddle of pain.

Tell me it isn't hard
When everything feels hopeless
When everything in your life is falling apart
Piece by shattered piece.

Tell me it isn't hard
When you spend every single night
With a pillow pulled to your face
To hide the sobs that cut through the air.

Tell me it isn't hard
When your heart is aching
For that one person.

Tell me it isn't hard
When you miss me.

It was fun, wasn't it?
Watching me suffer,
Tearing the beating heart right from my chest,
Leaving it to be replaced
With a gaping hole.
One that can never be refilled
No matter how hard I may try.
You enjoyed it, didn't you?
Wrecking me,
Destroying every possible hope I had,
Any hope for anything good in this wretched, wretched world.
You loved watching my pain,
You fed off of it.
And while I'm sitting here at two in the morning
With ***** filling my veins
And tears streaking my pale cheeks,
You're completely fine.
And that's what hurts the most.

Windy road, windy road,
When will you end?
I'm craning my neck endlessly
As we go 'round every bend.
And as I constantly hope and pray
For my aching heart to mend,
The only question I have is;
When ever will this windy road
Ever finally end?