You are not a person,
******* it,
you are a nebula.
You don't have skin
you have island universes of stars
and your hands aren't hands
they're the whole ******* solar system branched out through your fingertips.

I can't look at you
without feeling like I'm spiralling through your galaxy
without losing breath
because after all
there's no oxygen in space

But the worst part is your eyes
those great opal voids
your infinite ******* chasms
that engulf me every time

And I always thought I'd be scared in space
like it's too big, too empty, too unexplored
but here I am
floating
not scared at all

It was dark
I scaled the walls
Feeling them with shaking hands
Laughter was heard from outside the door
Probably my friends messing around
Unaware of my absence
I’m conscious of hands on my sides
He said he wanted to talk
What an odd way to start a conversation.

I could see the outline of his face through the dim light
Knowing that behind the shadows
Were the coffee eyes I melted in everyday
I could feel them pulling through the haze
Slowly closing as he pulled my waist to his
And then soft hands on my cheeks
Pressure on my lips
Hello foreign tongue,
Nice weather today
What an odd way to start a conversation.

My eyes were wide open
And I know that’s not how you’re supposed to kiss
(Not from experience or anything)
But I couldn’t grasp the situation
Years and years I had been waiting for this
It was great
Made my heart flutter in all the right ways
About half way in I realized
That back of my hand was a very bad kisser
But at least it didn’t drag me into an empty fire escape
What an odd way to start a conversation.

After a few minutes I pulled away
Lips tingling
I could feel the blood rushing to my head
Swinging my vision in violet loops
I looked up and could see him finally
My eyes adjusting to the gloom  
He smiled and stroked my hair
‘I thought you wanted to talk’
‘You should have seen that coming’
‘Maybe’
What an odd way to start a conversation.

when we were younger,
he paid me two dimes and a slinky to kiss him on the lips,
but he doesn't know I would have done it for just the slinky.

It's wrong.
That saying
The, "No one can love you until you learn to love yourself."
It's incorrect.
Senseless even.

You don't have to love yourself to have someone do the same.
In fact,
I think it's the people who don't love themselves
Are loved the most.

Others see their hurt
And reach out
Open their hearts

Let feelings of
Concern
Appreciation
Respect
Friendship

Love.
Enter in

The self-loathing one just doesn't know.
Or doesn't want to

They're blind
Eyes covered by a blindfold
Held securely in place by
Doubt
Fear
Hate
Anger
Regret
A past where something
Sometime
Lots of times
Went awry.

They can't trust themselves
Or anyone else because of that.

It's not easy to love someone like this.
It takes
Work
Determination
Persistence
Many different things

Some people will throw in the towel
Say it's too hard
Not worth it
But not everyone

A select few will stick around and love The loveless person
Shower them in appreciation
Cover them with love

So, don't think for
One
Single
Second
That you aren't loved

You are.

By me.
By others.
By God.

And all of us will be here
When you finally remove
The caked on
Mud
Dirt
The blinding debris
From experiences past

We will be here

When you can finally see just what about yourself is worth loving.

Sent Jun 29th, 12:10am

i just want someone to want me
to fall in love with my personality
and not the temporary
aspects of me

He is far away now.

Since I first wrote about him,
we've grown quite a bit closer.
Reading poetry in his smoked out van using hushed tones.
******* can be a verb but to him it's an adjective,
he'd use it often;
"I ******* love that girl, Nolan"
"That's the ******* ****, man"

We crouched under an awning,
cigarettes in hand, trying to escape the rain.
We needed to read no poetry then,
we were poetry, him and I.

He'd put his arm around me
while I vomited.
He understood I was sick because of seeing her with him, it had nothing to do with *******,
but he was more than willing to pretend.

I miss that man,
Bertran the Man,
who stands with cigarette in hand,
atop his white van,
hearing the cheers of those not fans.

I love that man,
for he is good and whole and poetry

I am going to snap
break her back

I swear if she talks in that tone
I will sucker punch that ***** in the gut

She's mean without reason
she's a **** without a purpose

but I pity her
she has no personality
and a nasally voice

It shocking her 8 year relationship finally became
a marriage engagement

I hope he leaves her at the altar

i bite my nails
and i bite my lips

my room is a mess
and i pick at dead skin

i look in the mirror when i
first wake up
and right before bed

i fall too hard
and i bruise too easily

and i write about boys
who will never love me