when i die
bury me with butterflies,
cut my veins open
and fill them with your sedated sighs.
when i die
play bloodbuzz ohio,
and twirl and laugh.
kiss me on the cold cheek,
tell me how much you'll miss me
and my drowsy eyes
my cautious conscience
my satirical stares,
and long nights that didn't seem so long
when i die,
bury me with butterflies,
2 weeks of life is all they need;
and so do i.

I think i believe in god now. Not as an overbearing presence or a silver-bearded man sat upon clouds dictating my every move but i think i have found meaning the idea of a greater power.

I don't know how we end up drenched in cold september rain every time we go out but i think its a sign. Of what i'm not yet sure but i know the way your eyes lit up the last time i saw you was the work of an angel.

I swear i reached heaven when my heart jumped out of my chest and into your hands, metaphorically of course since your hands explored my skin, i was beside you and i think i lost track of where blanket met boy because your warmth replaced mine and my god did it feel good.

I'm not juliet and you're no romeo but maybe our lips can do as hands do one day, and maybe i can reach enlightenment or like hold your hand or something.

I think about why people pray as i lie in bed synthesizing you out of blankets and no amount of ******* pillows can make every hair stand on end like you. My thighs miss your hands and their melodic movements and trails of fire and i miss the sound of your heart and how fast it was beating and i wonder if you could hear mine too from across the room.

I hope heaven looks a lot like that room, as this one is hell and someone turned up the heat.

i'm sorry that i write words
into fickle lines
like my life depends on it
and that i sink ships
harbored in your heart
faster than the lose lips that whispered, "i love you"
i'm sorry that the constellations engraved in my palms
will perpetually lead back to you
and that your calloused fingertips will always feel like home
i'm sorry that feelings are fleeting
and that mine are cemented,
that all i've ever wanted
was benevolence
and that you are immortally running in the rivers of my consciousness.
but mostly,
i'm sorry that i will invariably confess through
spilled ink and teardrops
what i stand for
rather than tell you
what the voices  echo constantly in my hollow skull.

there's a slam of a front door
that sends a signal to my lungs
to tell them that they need nicotine
and another to the dry throat that
says it's time for a cup of coffee

i conduct a symphony of
slowly getting out of bed

taking the first sip of coffee
always reminds me of that
first kiss we shared on
new years at midnight,
i knew i would regret it

lately, the drinks i pour in
the evening feel worse than
a burnt tongue, because it
slides down my throat, into the
into the stomach, into the veins,
into the brain that usually tells me
do not think about this tonight but

i am drunk
i am obsessive
i am harmless

i have grown so exhausted of
always being the wrong kind of
brave

the moment of surprise,
hold of breath,
wandering eyes,
cloudy skies,
crowded place,
elevated space,
racing heart,
i'm fallen apart,
tight grip on your colar,
don't be so bipolar,
red lipstick kisses,
heartbroken pieces,
messy hair,
we are the perfect pair,
only when you leave me,
you will see,
why we were so reckless,
young and careless,
fooling around,
misbehaving without a sound,
our hearts wound,
unfixable,
dismissable.