I long
                    like
something plush weeping
         into a pillowed hug

of empty oxygen

though I try the Brave Game,
                                         (and usually win)
               flakes of me run
           off my arms and face
and scrounge around the corners of the room
          
                                                           looking for your mellow sting.

supposedly,
“heartache”
is figurative.
                        But I definitely feel
a              s t r e t c h i n g
mush
right where
the Doctors say my heart
                       should probably be

a slight tremor
(      echoes      )
      through every joint
of my toy frame,
              like a thousand elfin voices talking
                      about your favorite foods,
                      and the color of your hugs.

    the tightening
muscles of my throat
        send their regards to your
amicable eyes

              2.5 is a smallish bird
when one observes
             the blue expanse of my ocean life
but it pecks my most tender tissues
                     when I sit [flat] inside Today.

I miss
      like
someone resized my skin

                                            incompetently.

though I am grateful
for your delicate absence
                      (the elusive Good deserves you most)

I feel as if
the petty bird’s wing tensions
        won’t be satisfied
with the look of my dappled shoulders
till you stroke them densely
with your matter-of-fact fingers.

smoking becomes a habit
drinking becomes a routine
painting becomes a thing
photography becomes a job

and everything else becomes nothing.

im dangerous
im a human being who's mind is everywhere

i dont think straight
i think of the most craziest things

im a reckless teenager that never wants to grow up

I feel everything
from the bath water being to cold,
to the pain in that old man's eyes as he walked through the streets and wonders
how he came to be so alone
i think about such small and intricate thought.
untouched blades,dangerously sharp.
these thoughts cut the deepest and yet a part of me craves to swim in a river of red
i want to watch myself bleed in the comfort of knowing im not alone
nor are the hidden droplets of life that no one else has the thought to look for.
That's why shallow people are often beautifully pristine.
they are thinkers of common thoughts.
blunt knives that cut no deeper into their smooth skin than the hands
that caress their bodies.
Lonely are the sufferers.

you say you want help but you dont
you never answer.
you never respond.
you left me hanging all along.

you said you'd be there
you said you'd always love me no matter what

but thats a **** lie
you never will help me
you never will be here
and you never will love me.

you'll be loving the girl who ****** you over
and i still dont see you loving us both.

everything is now starting to becoming a habit.
going to bed late
smoking more
eating less
drinking more
thinking more
feeling less

painting and drawing more

its made me more crazy

its starting to make me a different person than who i used to be