ambrosia and crystalline stardust
       of yours in my senses
                    in my nose and my lungs.
       breathing in and out is
                    intoxicating
       and being around you is
                    without anxiety, except for
                    the butterflies in my stomach for
                              tomorrow.

you rid my body of the scars and
        fill me with wonderful empty
        thoughts and you.
you are polar and intense and
        you are
                   close.

she is good.
good like the way stars are
good for metaphors and
love is good for the heart.

she is good.
good like the way rain is
good after days of drought
and music is good the first
time entering deaf's ears.

she is good.
good like the way everything
has a reason and meaning,
like how my happiness is her
even though 'happiness' is just a
chemical coincidence
and nothing else.

My pain irks me,
Sends me flying into my bed.
Under the cover of darkness.

As I cry myself awake,
Unable to sleep.
I ask myself..
Why?

Why am I such a ***** up?
Why do I make mistakes,
Knowing my parents will be angry?

My tears intensify,
My claws take my skin,
Leaving ****** marks...

I scream in my head,
Rocking to the beat of my music,
That sings in my ear bud.

Evanescence,
Rascal Flatts.
Plumb.
Crossfade.

I cannot find peace..
All I feel is that pain.
That has ****** me over for,
Five years.

I'm only a teenager,
I only can take so much.
Until Its over.

I've already tried once...
What makes you think I'll try again?

Dad,
What makes you so ******?
Taking it out on me,
Because I don't listen?

Why can't you and my step mom,
Just realize..
That I'm only Seventeen..

And so it says,
My title will always stay.
Lone wolf forever..

I cant be perfect,
It's just not my style.

My life is so different,
I cry even harder.

Mistakes,
Promises broken.
Two faced liars..

God,
Why aren't you here?
I need you..
And I need you now..

As my pain intensifies,
All I see is the cascading shadows.
Watching my every move...

My music doesn't help anymore..

pushing for love is scary. people like to say that it's worth it. but love is a bitter boomerang; you push too hard and it comes back swinging, comes back pushing you, comes back beating you to the ground until you can't breathe. true love leaves you gasping for air, but not in the poetic sense. love leaves you tied to the bottom of the ocean with rocks in your pockets. trapped in a plane with your head out the window. inside of a plastic bag. love is suffocation. pushing for suffocation is scary.

the last few nights
will lay etched in memory
not because they were
overly special or
out of this world
but they are the end
of an era I didn't think
would cease to be

when, if ever, will I see
the faces that laughed
and sang along tonight?
will some of them press on
through the ages
or pass away with time?

my throat seems plugged
unable to open up
and say those final words
that lay solemn in the night
...
"Goodbye my friends,

goodbye"

do you remember when we use to play the nights away and find comfort in each others arms—now it's just a cold and desolate day with the sun set in my eyes and rays in my blood stream; and when i'm alone, i can still feel your eyes set on destruction as they stare me down into a little war path of lusted rage. it was you that held me when sweat matted my skin in drops of rain, when blood coated my lips in passionate ***; it was you that varnished my skin into the glass tiles when i rocked back and forth in the middle of my bath tub waiting for the ground to descend into nothingness.

and now it's you, that disbands my brain like an array of dying stars in the sky we once painted together with our trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. and now, it's me; it's me that stands in the middle of the street with blurry cars running by like angry lions in heat, fighting for the heat of the moment because they're too ******* stupid to eat their way through the decayed animals that are too far gone into the wilderness of disaster—and with their bones like melted clay in their stomachs, i stand in the middle of a highway with my hands thrown aside like a cape of darkness.

was it that your were too tired of spending contagious sad nights with me that you had to pack your stuff in a tiny suitcase that could barely fit the words I’m sorry into the brackets of their shoulders. maybe it was the way i scratched your back during steamy tales in between the sheets that scared away the words i love you from your mouth—or the way i had to pick up the pieces of the faulty mirror for you to even utter my name from your rocky eyes. i think it was the stitches in my marred bones that threw you off guard; they were too weak to carry your ego on felted silks because while you thought art was an object of disguise. i thought it was an object demanding to be felt through brittle streaks of dull colors.

it was when you shouted at my writings for feeling too much when i whispered that my words were messages in disguise because our feelings were too much to handle—and that’s when you broke the handle to the cracked, wooden door that held more blood than the inside of our hollow scar tissue. it was then when i realized that—

my fingers hurt from unbuttoning your skin, unzipping your veins into two split pieces of heated metal that slice my wrists open with uncertainty. it was the lines that the scars created that dismembered my wrists from my hands and clawed the nails off with broken bites of disintegrated love into my knuckles—when the cemented wall hit my fist with action-packed wrath of fervent wisps of outpoured whiskey into your mouth, into my breath, into your eyes, and into my clenching veins is when i knew the nights we spent were only tales of childish foreplay—heavy innuendos of vapid, misused paint on cracked paintbrushes and oil-based pens.

i’m tired too. i’m tired of my bleeding fingers used to scatter your drops of paint onto the pallet of my skin while i had to sew the seams of my veins into a cross so maybe I could find a way to God while my God was too busy fondling the idea of pain into my eyes. i’m tired of my oil-based pen handling my hand with sacred demons barking at the nails stuck in my brain while my brain fights for some sort of unasked forgiveness that i didn’t know i needed.

it was then that i realized that the milky ways in your troubled soul carried out the stars in my name—that’s what sold me the first night we met—only, i wish we hadn’t met.

I find it funny
how so many people
who sing about peace and understanding
are terrible people, full of hate,
while so many people
who sing about the nature of hate, itself,
are so peaceful and understanding.

i laid down across the desks
     like always
and started writing
     like always.

i felt her hands on the back of
my upper thigh
she wasn't trying to arouse me
but i could feel her little fingers
bumping up my thigh in
a rhythm, thumping while she texted on her phone
and i felt a light touch on my ****
a packet of papers
and another pair of hands doing work
on their work
on my ****
and i felt the light massages of her fingers on my thigh
and i wondered if other girls felt this way
when they were touched
and i wondered what made me different
and if i was different.

I took a risk with you
and I won't regret it

Just as long as you don't

I need you to know
that I no longer write about you.