I'm sure it was a piece of art,
the letter you wrote,
the words on the paper
you probably brought it to life.
I didn't do it,
because I'm glad you didn't.

Monday mornings we're meant to
be sat down, handed coffee, and weakened.
I didn't know you wanted to be heard.
I wrote my headline for you.

Tuesday mornings are the equivalent
to the morning after, sudden and hungover.
I should have known you were decomposing.
I moved waters for you.

Wednesday evenings I had the time to cry.
I had the time to clean up my act
and to forget the morning.
You should have seen my bones.
I was starved for you.

Thursday nights felt like I could take
boat rides, through the seas of lovers lost
and lovers dead.
You should have felt how corrupted I was.
I sold my soul for you.

because i know you
because i have felt you
in the shower
in the back of a cherry red
Jeep Laredo
because the last time we spoke
you confessed you ate
Peppermint York Patties
because they remind you of me
because i should have never
been to scared
to say "i'm scared"
because your laugh makes me
laugh
because i see Christmas lights
in your eyes
because i am beautiful to you
because i am always
always going to remember
*** in a motel room
*** on your cheetah comforter
*** on the leather couch
because i will never forget how i felt
like i had died
when i let you go
because your drug habits are
mine
because my passcode is still
bun
because i love you
too much
for myself to carry alone
because i need you to carry it
with me
because i love you
too
much
for myself.

There will be a day, where you’ll wake up and realize something that’ll probably change your life. I had an honest moment not too long ago, and have had trouble putting it into words. To be completely honest, a little cliche even, I felt the fall hit me in the gut and I gave in. I gave in to the slight chill in the breeze that flew by my bare face and yes, I wished for more of it. Typically like the entire human race yearns for more and more of things until, well frankly, they just get bored. I had someone recently tell me: “ If you don’t look for it, the finding will be much more spectacular” and there came my honest moment throwing me a slightly irritating wack in the jaw. I did my finding after the found and I couldn’t quite find it. Bare with me, now with the story of how I was found without finding.

I was once a girl that wanted to be wanted, to be held, and to be the one someone held on to. I was the girl who asked instead of holding hands to hold fingers, because it made me feel something different. I was the girl who chose to stay the “findee” because I felt that was where the magic happens. I then became the girl who had no idea who she was, I became the girl who didn’t want to find anymore.

It was then a Monday, when the finding took place. I was found and the finding was not done by me, rather another “findee” in training.

I found that you can smell the seasons change and feel the weather drop. I also found that having the seasons fly away so rapidly is the reason why you’d have to sit the **** down and enjoy it. I had an honest moment when I realized that I love it when my bed is ragged and unmade at all times and when I take a swing of emotions when I’m drunk and alone. I love it because I know people don’t want to admit it’s a ****** time, this thing called “becoming an adult” or “doing you” while it seems as if people are doing them, greatly.

Sit the **** down, and have an honest moment. Take in the changing colors of the leaves and don’t wear a sweater when it’s ******* freezing out. Let go of being the tired findee, and let it find you.

And for the love of God, secure it when you’re found, as it will be spectacular and all, it could fly away.

Two years ago I wore bunny ears and a bunny tail on Halloween at the exact same moment I texted you "Happy Birthday".
Twelve mini-cupcakes later, Two years later, I can't decide whether or not It will be a happy birth day.

White dreams cascading
down my spine, down my
trembling thighs
with thoughts of slumber
close to you,
I must have been swept away
by this crystallizing sugar.

Heavy eyes, fluttering open
like an aloof spring day,
I have had my fair taste of
******* for the day,
yet it tastes rather like
infidelity and prayer.

Bitter to admit, yes,
this ******* has overthrown
my gut.
I have witnessed the curves of
it's chest and wrapped it's
spinal cord around my neck.

Platonic it may have ended,
yet my *******,
began with such a sweet taste.

So what if
I liked the sensation of your
bare skin?
Along with the lingering
charisma you leave on
my lips?
And what if
I found your briefs
with a scent of
infidelity and lavender
on the bedside table?
**Now, what if
I murmured
"I still love you."
and under your boiling skin
you smelt
the truth run itself out of my
shower drain?

I have recently started to work on individual pieces that will later go into an entire piece (such as this one) about things in my life in which I find. Find what exactly? I'll leave that up to interpretation.

My idea here is to end the sugar coating of the realness of growing up.

To the age of Heartbreak and the Heartless, I write for you

I had a boy tell me "you're a breath of fresh air" everyday for a year. I broke his heart as I did mine. I had a boy tell me pretty things and I stepped all over it. I'm still breathing. I'm still fine. But I feel it from time to time.

Heartbreak will come for you, if it hasn't already, in any kind of form. This day and age, anything breaks your heart. Will it be okay? Probably, probably not. They'll leave you, you'll leave them, your phone will break, someone might die, you'll cry, you'll drop out, you may become an addict, and you may even lose them all together. The world has endless ways of telling you "stop crying about it" but you'll always find more reasons to do it anyways. My advice? Feel it. Feel the heartbreak coursing through your veins and take it in like the very drug it is. You may not see it yet, but you're a heart-breaker and you've got to start enjoying it. It'll hit you, and you'll be consumed (let it consume you.)

We're the heartless walking among the heartbroken. Give it out, your heart can take the beating it will surely get. We live life afraid of being hurt and yet we don't give a **** anyway. Eliminate the fear and just let it hurt you. Give your heart to people. Bottling it up will only suffocate it. There's someone/something for everyone or there might just be more than one for you, that's cool too. We're the society that has let the wrong things consume us; social standards, media, others, careers, get the **** over it. We're not here to be skeletons of the past or the famous. Be the rotting corpse you want to be, be the heartless ones who fear more of life being taken than life being ******.

Life is ******, break a heart or two, and toughen up.

Being Found
There will be a day, where you’ll wake up and realize something that’ll probably change your life. I had an honest moment not too long ago, and have had trouble putting it into words. To be completely honest, a little cliche even, I felt the fall hit me in the gut and I gave in. I gave in to the slight chill in the breeze that flew by my bare face and yes, I wished for more of it. Typically like the entire human race yearns for more and more of things until, well frankly, they just get bored. I had someone recently tell me: “ If you don’t look for it, the finding will be much more spectacular” and there came my honest moment throwing me a slightly irritating wack in the jaw. I did my finding after the found and I couldn’t quite find it. Bare with me, now with the story of how I was found without finding.

I was once a girl that wanted to be wanted, to be held, and to be the one someone held on to. I was the girl who asked instead of holding hands to hold fingers, because it made me feel something different. I was the girl who chose to stay the “findee” because I felt that was where the magic happens. I then became the girl who had no idea who she was, I became the girl who didn’t want to find anymore.

It was then a Monday, when the finding took place. I was found and the finding was not done by me, rather another “findee” in training.

I found that you can smell the seasons change and feel the weather drop. I also found that having the seasons fly away so rapidly is the reason why you’d have to sit the **** down and enjoy it. I had an honest moment when I realized that I love it when my bed is ragged and unmade at all times and when I take a swing of emotions when I’m drunk and alone. I love it because I know people don’t want to admit it’s a ****** time, this thing called “becoming an adult” or “doing you” while it seems as if people are doing them, greatly.

Sit the **** down, and have an honest moment. Take in the changing colors of the leaves and don’t wear a sweater when it’s ******* freezing out. Let go of being the tired findee, and let it find you.

And for the love of God, secure it when you’re found, as it will be spectacular and all, it could fly away.

I'd start by asking you, politely
if I could explore the depths of your body
like a librarian in an endless library
searching for the history book in
a row of poetry.

Your body, like a part of history,
has been taught to me,
by the only one who has ever had the
chance of exploring it,
so enchantingly, every night,
you.

Let me explore your seas.

I have conquered love.
I need no more the boy I once used to admire, I need no more of him.

I have accepted love.
I want no more of his touch, I want no more of his pain.

I now have a sweet, sweet boy.
I now know he is not him. I now know I can live.

A boy with eyes a hazel hurricane.
A boy with height to last for days.

A boy who wipes the tears I cry, a boy
Who I call mine.

The sky was a rude shade of
indigo when you whispered to me
"look at the world move"

I took the sky in harmony
and watched the universe
rotate my eyes inward,
hence when I saw you

I thought I had seen the unbelievable,
you're such a rude shade of indigo,
and you're making me dizzy.

The dying breed
of the careful and careless.
We are proud and so ashamed
by stories of past lives
and recent deaths.
We are the disgusting
rodents walking among
teardrop roads
and war crime rivers.
We are the beautifully ******
running, like the wild ones,
running through
sunshine genocides
and butterfly dead pools.

We are the  sane, in the insane.

When you catch him
gazing at your skin,
Be sure to tell him,
It's all his.

It is not so much of a mysterious poem, your love, no.
It is more like a way of infatuating, me.
Your love, on most cynical days and nights,
is like a ******'s first sight of snow.
Freezing temperature, a sane white rose, at the most.
Your caricature could **** a woman, you assortment
of beautiful things that the insane can only see.
When the smoke consumes your eyes,
you look so divine, my King.
And it's your love that takes me by chance,
by the time it's dawn,
chance has met my match, darling.
And you proceed, to weep,
into my ears, are whispers
that tingle so romantically,
so intimately, and you proceed
to carelessly
call me
your
Queen.

What’s that one thing you’d fall completely in love with over and over again?
Is it a feeling? Is it a sound? A person?
Could it be the morning light that you catch seeping into your room from the partially opened shutters right when you open your eyes and relax your weak arms from that brutal stretch? The way the room automatically becomes a shade of blue from the cloudy sky?
Maybe the way you feel when you take a perfect glance at your surroundings,
that feeling of relief.
Relief because not only are you waking up alive but,
to a room that glows with “New start” written all over it.
You’re not just slouching there like a room full of sorrow just hit you in the face. You’re thinking all things bright and beautiful are coming today.  In that moment, I don’t need your help. I don’t need your sympathy. You’re not even a use to me anymore in that moment because I’ll be by myself at the end of the day.
You’re not my possession.
Honestly, you shouldn't even be important but, you seem to always know your way around this town. All I’m saying is at that moment, nothing matters, not you or this ****** up world. But, at the same time everything matters. And you’re not on that list, just my coffee and I in this room for the rest of the day.

symphonies and orchestras
played for us,
and when the music came to an end
I found my head.
I am not apologizing.

I felt the blood, rushing through me
as I swayed through a dream of lust
and alcohol,
not once with a
worry.
I am not sorry.

I have recently found out,
that I can use the word "I"
and not be afraid of
deeming "us" dead.
I am not worried.

to the raw nerve you had
to request such out of my mouth,
I applaud it deeply.
without you, I would have
never brought myself
to say
"I don't love you anymore"
I am non-apologetic.

Rusty cheeks on worn out fingertips
in the middle of the world,
you were the epidemic
of fantasy this head needed.
You're the science fiction novel
in a bookcase of poetry.

Tired eyes on ruthless faces,
on a sliver of two continents,
you were the explosion
that became the
Solar System.

Down,
down at the bottom
of that pit less
***** you call
your stomach
you all have
taken
or
thought
about the mere fact
that there's
one thing
in the soulless
trench whom we've
named Earth
which controls our
"meaningless lives."

A piece of ******* paper.
That kind of off-forest green,
torn up, and passed around
slice of priceless paper.
A tree in the form of a
rectangle shocks our eyes
with ******, vengeful
appeal every single day
of our withering lives.
Could it be the
face that we've
memorized off of
Mount Rushmore
that makes us
believe for even a second
that our taste could possibly
be a bit more
lavish.

**A piece of ******* paper.