All I knew is that he made me feel safe
I'm usually under lock and key
but he makes my heart weak
just from declaring his love for me

it's sweet as hell when a guy
wants nothing more
than your beating heart
and precious soul

when you find the one for you
your heart will know
just from the electric chemistry
and the way you lose your mind
to love's insanity whenever he speaks
how he can make you feel alive
just from a simple sentence
then you know
the chemistry
is electric

you've been let down so many times in the past
you nearly forgot what true passion was
until that man came and changed
your mind about love

judas bows d o w n
                                
                         to us
-darling
your tongue is my savior

Our sheets have become an extension of limbs-
my knees are bruised for only you

bedside forts  e c h o    lullabies and
Your stare is the catalyst for a vital release

-My heart sleeps in your mouth and I've rummaged through reasons to exist
But
the sincerity of our sweat raises Christ from the dirt
-just to kiss your forehead

and isn't that enough?

99 cent wars, rooftops, Gibraltar Screaming "god bless the fabulous" Christs;

In the eyes of years
Man is king only over that which breathes,
So let's throw hugs in the air,
sit on flowers and vanish to Cook stones on the hips of Cleopatra
with all of December's left footed children

For through the cried ***** tears of furry German banana caskets,
Eternity awaits
In the failures of our greatest triumphs,

So let's dance

After all, Psychological Wednesday societies
Are only good for curing Xbox manifestos and Tuesday sanities

And if we died one day,
it sure won't be yesterday.

My body is not poetry.
My spine is curled up
into a question mark
from centuries of insecurity
and the weight of the
worlds trapped in my skull.

My thighs are canvases for
atlases, road maps, and
interstate highways that lead to
nowhere. Or everywhere.
They’re big enough for both.

Not when my hands
are the kind that are meant to tremble
not the kind meant to be held.

My hips are not made
for you to skim
your hands over.
They are guideposts:
between (here) and (here)
lies a dreadfully broken girl.

My body is not poetry.
Because it won’t last as long as
dried ink on yellowed, musty pages.
Because it breaks more easily
than the cracked spines
of a beloved, well-read book.
Because it is not something that
soothes the soul and
makes my heart ache all at once.

My body is not poetry.*
Mostly because I’m
just a little afraid
of anybody who would be able
to read me so well
to put me into words.

When you find out Santa Claus doesn't exist
When you can't find that shirt in your size
When you find out your parents' marriage isn't as perfect as you thought
When it rains after you make plans to go to the beach
When nobody remembers your birthday
Or your favourite cake
Or that you're afraid of clowns
When you only score a B on that test
When you give up on yourself
When you realize you aren't as strong as you once thought

She had a frazzled sort of look about her. Wispy hair fell into her eyes which were watering from the allergies she often complained about, the ones that caused her nosebleeds so heavy, she'd nearly faint from blood loss. But beneath her red eyes and curly hair was this pale, pink cheeked girl who listened to  punk and wrinkled her nose. She was like an antique. Something worn down, beautiful and full of secrets and memories, that you'd find under a pile of books in a dark corner. She was sarcastic, flighty and judgmental, constantly angry with the world and culture that she'd been ****** into. She spent all her time forcing beauty and laughter into people's lives so they wouldn't see the shattered pieces of the world and subsequently herself that she tried to hide behind her back. Others might see this as sly or deceitful but it wasn't. Her lies were the selfless kind, if such exist. She wanted to protect people from the world that wore her down so cruelly and quickly, she became an antique person by the age of fifteen. This frazzled, determined, lovely girl may not change the world, but she changed my life.

it goes like this,
i said.
the singer finds the quiet one.
they run through sprinklers and
hold their breath under tunnels
and roll the windows down when
their favorite songs come on.
they drink midnight coffee
at diners meant for the old
and alone, and make pictures
across the table with packets
of sugar. together they decide
that the best word is petrichor,
the smell of dirt after it rains,
and when the lights come on
at christmastime they sit in
the trees and watch greens
and reds throw patterns
across their skin.
all of it is perfect
and none of it makes sense.

you said but what about
the singer? you said
what about her songs?