here's what i know:

they will teach you that broken means beautiful, but they have stained teeth of ***** and a dispassionate way with words.
    you'll probably ask for a cigarette because your hands are shaking like thunderstorms. and ****- you wish you could be something that earthly. that breathtaking. something that sends the liars running.
     but you inhale instead. all you know is that being tough is scary, but it's kept you alive this long. and wouldn't you rather be beautiful and dying; instead of docile like the girl down the street? wearing her her lip gloss like sheep skin. she's soft, sure. but she doesn't have to tuck in her rib filled with medicine just to feel normal again.

   that brings me to lesson two,

  when the girl with ivy in her eyes asks to love you,
don't ask why. avoid the unknown, messy parts that lace itself into your brain. just kiss her.
   you'll call her angel with all of you; and she won't know how to deal with that love. the kind of love that keeps her awake. and you won't either. because why would divinty love a suicidal star. you'll try to burn out, (let the sky swallow you whole) but she'll call you pure and kiss you where your neck meets your jaw.

the only thing left to see/

    when i was little, my father smashed a mirror in front of my ma's head. the glass splintered everywhere, and buried itself into the soles of my feet. it reflected in everything around me. daddy tried to glue it together. forced himself to stand the heat. broken isn't beautiful. it's just ******* sad.
     

     there are no words for the feeling of
          divinity. (except this) she speaks
hymns into my mouth. i can breathe again.

think my father hates me
or maybe he just detests
the way i trap hearts like flies
and i don't call back, even when they beg
for a chance to be alive again
him & i
we rise together with stormy eyes
and bipolar tendecies

i hate him too
the way he sits there in his unflourishing dependency
on conspiracy theories and how meds will **** me

so we sit in the tint of blue on a couch that's
barely made for two.
the house is now broken down
with ivy trees that can see into my history.
it eats me alive and speaks whispers of things i cant believe.
it says, "baby don't you know... nostalgia is disgusting,
especially when you can't see what i see."
so i ask her what she can see.
ivy. the envious torture of it all. and i leave like i always do. in a pile of ash, guts, and a couple "*******'s"