You have become completely two dimensional
You live in photographs and in the shadows
In the rings left by a finished cup of tea
You're face is dripping with nostalgia and regret
And it's not your own
We were both bleeding
I couldn't kiss you better
I couldn't stitch up your hand, I couldn't even hold it
I was terrified
Now you live in old journal posts
And those few pictures I can't bring myself to delete
I can't shake you

I again woke to the sound of your voice
but all I was left with
was your cold absence
and an echo of things
I never wanted to know
and lies I painfully wished to believe

You're Always the nowhere
in every location.
An Umbra unspoken:
Pure carbon black.

The radio
plays a different song
depending on your mood.
So I make you turn sour grapes
and suddenly Jimmy Eats World
hits the speakers.

I wait; nothing great ever happens.
Blame it on me,
as I drive under the tunnel.
You put the window down,
light a cigarette, and tell me,
"I put my soul into this art ****."

I don't know how to respond
to that statement, so I keep driving.
The smoke leaks out,
covering the night like a quilt.
You ask me, "Where'd you leave the drugs?"

I don't respond.
Tap my shoulder until I twitch
and say, "Cut it out."
But this time, you open the door,
step out to the road,
and ditch me to go watch "La La Land"
with your ex.

I go home and make a tuna melt.
The sunlight is fading and nothing
good is playing on TV.
The couch pulls out into a bed
and there I shut my eyes.

And I tumble into dreams,
dreams where you exist
to hold me up,
instead
of pulling me down.

i sold my soul to tomorrow
and it told me i could fly.

The bite of your words in my ear, the touch
of your thoughts as they patter like specks of
rain on my skin, the feelings I have for
you, this undeniable and uncontrollable
attraction... they make my eyes glisten with
happiness and my stomach fill with nausea.
I cannot tell if this sickness that you
give me is just fear or if it is the
knowledge of an illusion that my heart
is presenting to everyone. Even to myself.

He told her

It is the beauty on the inside that counts

Her response

Then why do my insides continue to find themselves in the wrong place
Lifted into white porcelain gods
Asking anyone to compliment my withered self
Please make love to me
Tell me I am better than the acid on my tongue
The regret powering my mind as I struggle down my dinner
Inside is where I find these thoughts
Thoughts powering my actions
Into a spiraling pit of self loathing
Tell me I am pretty one more time
And I will show you my insides to prove it