Black hoodie,
black dress,
we are,
hopeless.

Your laughter is pinned up,
but I don't know its sound.
Your smile is three walls,
but I'm the fourth.

She peeks  out
from under her curtain of hair,
watching the world,
unaware.

We want to be remembered.

Is that not why we fold
pieces of gum into
the neat underbellies of tables,
is that not why we stomp up silent stairs,
slam arrogant doors, push back nonchalant chairs?

And is that not why we bury half finished cigarettes,
cherry stained from lips, and ashed
from the careless shakes of wrists?

Or throw empty bottles
as far as reluctant arms allow,
so that satisfying clinks can reassure us
of those other things,
as broken as our lives or sometimes
hearts.

We're afraid to be forgotten.

and when he smiled
god,
the whole **** room
just
       lit
           up

At least let me be
the girl who doodles on her arm
because she's scared to get a real tattoo,
and the girl whose freckles bloom
like little daisies on her cheeks
to match her middle name,
the girl who leans out the window of the car,
to feel the wind kiss her face, her soul,
and the girl who sneaks out early
to write poetry in a French town,
who wears silver rings, not gold,
and sometimes laughs too much,
or too little, because,
this is also the girl
who breaks her own heart too often
because she believes that it's better
to regret what you've said
than what you haven't,
let me be her, because,
without her, I only exist.

His name;
it's on your lips,
a kiss, un-consented,
it's on your arm,
ink, black,
like his eyes, they looked,
it's on your wrist,
the red of his cold, hard heart.