I hate how simply beautiful
I think you are
Without even trying
Not because your countenance
Has all the features I desire
Or that, your sullen eyes
Make me want to cry
I want to do better than your demons
To do better than your dreams

I would love to think.
That in some parallel universe.
You are still here.
Living. Loving. Laughing.
And the parallel me
Is right where he should be.
Beside you.
Equally living, laughing, and loving.
Unfortunately, that is not my universe.
But you are still a piece of my world.

Was my body just a welcome mat
For you to wipe your ***** feet.
Or was it a place for us to meet.
And feel the heat
Of our bodies

Thinking back.
I wonder how I fell off track.
Looking at these sidewalks.
Marked with boxes.
Like a childs hop scotch game.
Was I always this black cat?
Struggling and pawing at life's mat.
The door to where my life ended and began.
Is that why I ran?
Is that why I came back?
Because I died, and lived?
Or was I always this ****** black cat...

I think it was all me.
I played out this little Fantasy.
Where you were mine.
And I was yours.

How could I have been so blind
Now this pen it binds
My wrists
Run dry, this ink in vains
As I pour out this illusion
Of X's and O's
Of flowers and hearts

Maybe I just thought you were someone
Someone I wanted you to be.
Something you and I could never be.
Someone for me.

I fall too hard for the wayward stars
Because they understand broken hearts
Because they know what it is like to burn up.

Should i accept my fate.
Become something that drifts through the cosmos
A piece of debris
Seeing all the stars
But never getting too close to feel their fire.

So when you come back down to earth
And you stare at your palm trees and power lines.
Will you have dreams
Of big apple scenes

Or will you dream of me.
Lost with the wayward stars
Or will I just be a memoir
Lost with the books
Hidden in the nooks
Of your heart.

I want to take this body.
And cover it with ink.
So much so that when you see me
You will never recognize me.
So that I look like someone else.
Because I don't feel like myself

I want to take this body.
And cover it with ink.
So that if you cut me.
You cannot tell how much you have hurt me.
You won't be able to see the bruises, and scars.
Because they will be covered in colors that are the most beautiful.
So I can hide the way I feel inside.
I can hide how sometimes, I feel more dead than alive.

As I sit here.
I try to figure out the calamity.
That is my life.
The calamity that you created.
When you left.
Without saying goodbye.
But saying you could never have loved anyone more.
You left your hollow shell here.
You left it with me.
I keep saying you did this.
You created this world in which I hate the ether.
It sounds like I blame you.
Maybe part of me does.
But mostly I blame myself.
But these self medicating pity parties
Don't really push me out of these dark places.
They make me bleed and bleed.
From every open wound that never heals.
Because I keep picking at those scabs.
In truth.
You are not the creator of my hell.
Nor are you it's doorwoman.
It is me.
Me and every manifestation of my sins.
We have created this home.
And now I don't know how to be free.