Few things touch a poet more than the pure beauty of a smile newly in love,

Or the tremendous pain seen in the tear filled eyes of a heart recently broken.

I can no longer see one without recalling the other,
And in that I find my poetic doom.

Across the room a subtle glance
Victims of bad circumstance
Hoping you would take the chance
Yet, nothing changes
The makings of a great romance
But time estranges

There you are just out of reach
In my mind there is a speech
Of how your heart I will beseech
I still, can feel you
The words you say I will impeach
I know the real you

The one whose kindness from the start
Has torn my faded world apart
And shown the truth to half a heart
There's so much out there
Happiness you do impart
With how much you Do care

Still it's like just yesterday
So close and yet so far away
I need you in my arms, to stay
That's my suggestion
I want you each and every day
There is no question

So sunshine mornings I have seen
Because there is no in between
The love we feel has always been
Our worst disaster
If only kisses dared to mean
Forever after

Today I found a suicide note
that I have no recollection of writing.
It was addressed to my mother
but it felt more like a death threat
to myself
from someone who knows me
too well.

I keep telling myself
I do not want to die
but even with winter approaching
the days seem to be getting longer
and sleep
is the only time I feel safe.

It has been 17 days and 16 hours
but the cuts on my wrist still ache
when I move my arm the wrong way.
I don't think they're healing right.

I know this house is haunted
because I can hear demons
whispering ****** into my hairline.

Today I found a suicide note
that I have no recollection of writing.
I am writing another.

I've been waiting out these rainy days
with my head down
and my ears waiting eagerly for your call

I had my own whimsical hopes about you
and how maybe we could be
because I liked the way you don't say much
and how you only smile if someone actually deserves it
and when you sit alone in the farthest corner of the gardens
because it's exactly where you wished to be

I was captivated by your mystery
and the possibilities I had told myself were more than a good chance
My hopes built higher after you mentioned one evening alone together
they peaked, and pointed to a plateau of so much fantasy I could finally see clearly

There is always a caveat in these situations
and mine starts with a but,
but, you rarely look at me when I speak
but, you never even held my hand
but, you never ask about me
but, I can hardly get a word in when we're alone
but, I can't be with someone who doesn't value me

I've spent my entire life building up fantastical stories and telling myself that boys liked me because it was the only way that I could feel like I was worth something.
My main objective for as long as I can remember has been changing myself to make it easier for people to receive me,
but i'm not a ******* package waiting to be delivered to price charming's doorstep just so he can open me up, use me, and throw me aside.
No longer will I pretend that I am not a whole being.
The parts of me that are not soft and pink are still worth something.
I have baggage and rough patches but I think those scars are beautiful.
My thoughts may come out scattered but they're still worth hearing,
and I cannot go chasing down the love of someone who doesn't care to understand that I am more than just a sum of a few pretty parts.

The delight of it all -
rain splattering skin
like tiny knives,
back of my hair
a throng of wet
sinewy stems
plastered to my neck.

I scoff blueberry
after blueberry,
perforate each
little indigo shell,
let the taste
swell as an ulcer
at the front of my tongue.

Snow becomes slush -
graphite clumps
sliced through by bicycles,
footprints of strangers overlap,
undulate as ECG lines
down alleyways,
into dimly-lit side-streets.

A couple kiss,
their lips
a strange pinky knot
of flesh and breath
outside a bar
bunged with get lucky
guys from across the bridge.

Find a bench,
allow the metallic cold
seep into my hands
like a morphine injection,
count every dull grey building,
tighten my scarf
a bit more, a bit more.

Give him a pencil
or any straw;
he will engrave
an image
on flying sands!

I haven't written poetry
since the night with all the blood
because I'm afraid that the demons
might crawl out from underneath my fingernails
and singe the edges of my paper with their hellfire
and I am trying to get better,
I swear I am,
it's just hard when
I can't tell my own voice apart from
the monsters in my head.