I couldn't stand thinking about you;
I started drinking about you.
Wine ran thin,
morphed to blood.
You called me psychotic,
I've just seen too much of you to be sane.
Like bruised ribs
and eyes black as the pit in your chest.
Where is your heart?
Washed away in the rain,
dripping through cracks
so girls below can catch a glimpse of hell.
Enough is enough.
The words inside melodies never say anything new,
but I listen on repeat just in case
I catch a glimpse of anything true.
Or things I lost when the flood broke my bones,
Making an enemy ship of our sullen home.

Sitting by the window of an unfriendly room,
baffled voices surround an unquenchable core.
Digging my nails into flesh on my wrist,
I crack both big toes.
All the while, your limbs travel my inner eye lids.
Something simple as a blade of grass,
complex as The Birth of Venus cracking the surface of the sea.
Strings lace the cortex of my mind,
until all that remains are two puppets;
metal spokes force your eyes
to exonerate mine.

Sometimes I'm sad and I want to die, and sometimes my heart feels so heavy I'm afraid it'll turn to stone.
Yet when I look at you, my stomach sheds the butterflies it housed inside, and I feel not so afraid.
I told you I felt bad for not mourning death, but I felt better when you said you felt the same.
I felt special, when you told me about your crush, but how it could never work,
because he's not like "us".
Us.
Like we are part of the same entity, part of the same space, of sinew and matter.
Us.
Like you thought I was special enough to be part of you.
That was the greatest thing you could have said to me, except that one time, when you told me;
"I could love someone like you."

I woke up ******* on the moon.
Ear to sand,
All the ocean sang was him.
Like art,
Not meant for beauty,
Only tears.

It's funny, looking at my hands after all this time.
They do so much for me, they are the tools that allow me to do much of what defines me.
So here they are, splayed out in front of my face.
And I am trying to convince myself of something.
That maybe if my hands were just a little bigger, a little wider, a little stronger I could stop it.
I could catch all your tears as they fell.
I could hold you up when you fall.
I could point you in the direction where things wouldn't be so **** awful.
I could grip the fears and terrors of  our day to day and
I could beat back the sadness.
But I have only got my hands.
And they seem a little inadequate for the job I need to do.
Because my hands only have so much surface area
And just like sand in an open hand
Sadness slips through my fingers
I want to carry the weight of the world on my hands, and give your shoulders a much needed rest.
God knows,
I have tried.
But ****, I am sorry.
Because the results seem to be a little lackluster.
I know that I can't stop the sad days, even more than I can create the happy days.
Just know that for you, I will spread my hands like the wings I was never meant to have
And share your burden.
You are not Atlas, Job, or Cain,
And I love you because of that.