come & find me
i've left my phone plugged
into the wall because i can't feel
you breathe through your fingertips
and i can't read your lips through emoji
your belly-button doesn't look right shrouded
in 8 mega-pixel dust and i want to touch you instead
of a keyboard on a screen and tell you about my day because
even though it's written doesn't mean it's real meet me offline because
i don't want a five second snapchat victory snapshot of your *****-line
i don't want my silly romantic poetry to be re-grammed on your insta
framed against a picturesque city skyline or a stoic mountain lion
with hashtags and sexting doesn't turn me on like the sound of
your voice i can write you letters until my fingers bleed but
they always arrive seven days late and you never cry
when you cut them open with a knife and i'm not
looking for a pen pal anyway or a friend
instead i seek a mirror with glowing
teeth or an outlet to plug
into and charge
me up

he didn't ask
i didn't tell
and that worked
now he wants more
than i am willing to give
or have and
i think i love him
or loved him
or could love him someday
but right now
now he wants more
than i am willing to give
or have

It's funny that if I were forced to choose
I know exactly who I'd run to

What happens when the narcissist
falls in love with the sociopath?

I hope I live to see Ed Sheeran, and Taylor swift live, and spend new years in New York
I hope I make the perfect coffee for my future love and maybe even raise a puppy.
I hope my writing actually gets somewhere,
Than just spilled on a random page,
Of a giant internet database
I hope my little quotes and lyrics
Are sketched into teenage journals
I hope I meet my biggest supporter someday, and hang out with them in Disneyland.
I hope everything stops being crazy,
And everything starts becoming clearer
I hope everyday I am alive, I make positive impact.

I hope, I hope
That the Universe notices,
All the times I nearly broke..
Were all the times,
I began to grow.

He didn't like the flowers
that sprouted beneath my collarbone.

He hated the red oak
and the fruit that I'd grown.

So I plucked every petal,
brought sheers to my throat
No longer my haven,
I was a garden of smoke.

Now he holds my wilted pieces
with a face of disgust
and decides an empty garden
is just too much fuss.