hey baby,
today it is not honeydew or guava or anything,
today i met someone new,

the taste of her is a little bit spicy,
and i don't know if my heart liked her or not.
or whether it sunk deep as
quicksand pulling me down
as it did with you.

but i am sure that it does if it is you, baby.
for my love for you is within lunacy.

to hold those small hands
to watch those eyes blink
to see those happy smiles
to hear that voice

of yours, all of yours.
forced insanity to consume me, deeply, but not too deep.

baby,
two weeks ain't enough for every seconds I wish you're here.
for every seconds I wish you're here,
i wish you're here.

I truly wish and i'll never stop wishing.

The first night is always the worst
When the two of you have reached the ****** of the argument and he spits on your worth by finally admitting that there is someone else...
It's kind of funny because when I was younger I thought people were just being dramatic when they said "love hurts" blah blah blah
but love.. that **** hurts.
I didn't want it to be goodbye
I closed my eyes hoping that the night would somehow make it better
That tomorrow would seal this letter that my heart was too afraid to send
Sincerely yours
Was I really yours?
Or was this all just pretend?
Maybe this is why love letters have gone extinct because their too permanent
Innocent white paper being held accountable for promises that it knows you won't keep.
White paper, so traditional like ill fitting wedding dresses
Like the absence of color
The absence of color on my cheeks.
I don't blush anymore.
I started wearing more eyeliner and maybe I'll pick up smoking or drinking.
You always thought drunk was the ugliest thing to be because of your father.
Don't look at me.
Stop sending mixed signals ok?
You know I'm gullible and I'm not sure if you're taking advantage of my vulnerability or if you really are just "checking up on me" with that unnecessary 'What's up?' text because I usually read it as a secret apology
Because if you were really happy with your decision to leave you wouldn't be looking back.
Don't talk to me.
I'm trying to be happy without your name in my most recent calls.
I hate how we shared plans, insiders, gifts, and art because my bedroom hates me now
And the radio station and my future too.
I hate how my little brother still asks about you
I hate how you smelled like nature
Now I can't even walk home without the trees weeping
And I'm not a tree hugger but lately I've been paying more attention to them
Trying to put this falling love somewhere and the hoodie you gave me sits in my closet like a game of hide and seek
Why do you leave remnants of you everywhere?
This isn't Hansel and Gretel
And I promise I'm not as strong as I seem to be.
Sometimes I fall apart and sometimes I ****** your name with subtweets, I'm sorry.
And everything I say doesn't make sense because I know you're out somewhere doing things we did with someone that isn't me and I hate you so **** much and deleting the text messages seems a little easier than throwing away your handwriting and we never finished watching that movie and I never finished saying thank you for everything because you ran away like a cowardly ocean and I was only your shore never your 'yes of course' and I often sit in math class wondering if you really loved me and I never seem to get the right answers.
And my excuse is that I'm the shambles of a teenage train wreck
I didn't mean to destroy your world.
But you do that every time you say her name like an atomic ghost bomb, and only I can feel the after shock of sylibals
Who knew that words could ****...
Guess we are all just a bunch of love driven murderers

In your budding years,
they said you weren't beautiful.
Little did they know,
that a day would come,
when your petals would spread gloriously,
such sweet aroma, such beauty...
That was the day you started to bloom.

And then they spoke again.  
This time they said,
That you needed to draw attention,
to gain admiration.
And that being desirable,
made you valuable.

So you wanted to stand out,
from among the crowd.
"All eyes on me,
So that the people would see,
my charm, my wit, my beauty."

But then you looked into the mirror,
and you didn't like what you saw.
You didn't look like that ******* TV.
Your flat nose, your round face,
Your eyes that aren't as deep set.
Since she was the definition of pretty,
you wallowed in self-pity,
obsessing over your own flaws.

So you got busy.
Busy putting makeup,
and covering up flaws.
Concealing, contouring.

Busy dressing up,
Trying to look ****,
Showing what you got,
so that people think you're hot.

But you got it all wrong.
For they were all wrong.

They didn't tell you,
that there is beauty in modesty.
And that drawing people with your body,
might end up leaving you lonely.

And that relying on other's validation,
would always lead to disappointment.
And that everyone out there,
really just wants someone to care.

That always drawing attention,
is a selfish expression,
and that giving attention,
may warrant more admiration.

They didn't tell you,
that you were beautiful,
even before bloom,
even before budding,
even before birth.

They didn't tell you,
that you were beautifully,
and wonderfully made by God.
And that what you thought were flaws,
God called beauty.

You paused to look at me as if you were browsing a book shelf
and your fingers brushed ever so slightly across my skin
hesitating, lingering, at my spine.

Then you chose me
you laid me down and opened me up
it wasn’t easy because not many have read me before.

Your eyes looked me up and down, side to side
taking it all in,
engorging yourself.

You licked your fingers before you turned my pages
for a steadier and more meaningful grasp.
You said paper cuts were pretty
and that they were safe with you.

But then,
you read something you didn’t like
slammed the book shut
and shoved it back on the shelf.

I mailed you a letter because you said
the art of writing is dead but I know
how to twist words into sculptures still small
enough to fit in the post box. I hope
you read what I wrote. I opened my heart
and sent you a poem. Someday when you’re old
you will show your grand kids the written art
some hopeless romantic girl undersold,
prefaced with ‘it isn't anything great but
maybe it will lead you to understand.’
I never claimed to be the best but my
head is full of cosmos and volcanoes
begging to explode black holes on paper as
relics pressed between pages like a dried rose.

My fire is dilatorily dissipating.
I was once a holocaustal conflagration.
A cremating, mad inferno.
Containing an unseeable array of vibrant shades of amber;
that could be seen from distant, distant regions.
I had once ignited with such a passion.
A drive that was beautifully unstoppable.
You were my blazing incendiary.
You started this combustible mess.
I am now but a flickering ember,
barely being able to spark.
My once scorching and numerous flames
have pulverized to ashes.
...Ironic isn't it?
The arsonist who dared to create me
whom fueled me with such a flammable tinder
was the same person
who tore me down
within seconds
with but a drop of water
and a blink of an eye.