Once a flower has been plucked, it’s death only brings room for another to grow

I'm sorry that I steal your sad songs

I'm sorry I ride on your highs
And coast past your tears with a forgetful mind

I'm sorry that we can't talk about anything real anymore without smoke and *****

I'm sorry that your grandfather died and I talked about my love life instead

I'm sorry that I'm a liar

I'm sorry but I am not close to being. The Real Deal

I'm sorry that you had to buy me another flour baby for school after mine busted

I'm sorry that I am always the passenger

I'm sorry that you had to cut off your bracelets for soccer

I'm sorry that he's gay

I'm sorry that I cursed the city for you

I'm sorry that I can't keep my mouth closed about anything

But I'm trying to learn the value of secrets

I'm sorry

Bookcases are falling
Stars are coughing
Dogs are sleeping

We are not together

The planets open my windows with a distant whistle
The dirt under my nails match my eyes
And my hair knots as a cry for help

Nostalgia is out of reach
Always intercepted the monster under my childhood bed

Flowers match flowers match flowers

A thief cries through the radio
One electric bulb lights my mind but
I am fading fast

I scale the roof because I hear Santa hides all unanswered letters under the shingles
and I know the taste of my words drive off the reindeer

Six months ago
I was lace-less and cross eyed
thinking to myself

Someday Yarn and Lights will cease to wake me
and Oxygen will become thick enough to drown

I feel like I am dying faster than my friends
And that everything I touch turns stale on both ends

its hard to realize that i fell in love with you
when i barely knew you

the space that spreads our interactions contains no stars
through i found myself looking through telescopes at you
imagining there was life on your surface

i got close enough to know, what i had been looking at for so long
has been dead for years

these metaphors of celestial sights are just another example of how i am a girl that needs to go outside to fantasize

almost every song i listen to, i wish i wrote

every smile of yours, i wish i caused


so lets let infatuation die in reality's grip

but know my memories of brushed skin will have to die with the sun

Tonight I was supposed to fill out paperwork

Instead I wrote a poem

Maybe black is nostalgic for the womb
Maybe white is when a soul can't bear its colors anymore
Maybe red is blood's mask
And yellow is gold's half sibling

Maybe we all are painted unwillingly by some huge spirit yes that must be it