If I am to die with ink on my hands,
Please leave it be.
Do not wash even the smallest scrawled reminder,
For it is part of me.
Leave it to remind me that even in death,
There are things to do.
Leave open faced palms,
If they confess my love for you.
Know of the unexpected,
And if you see your name,
Remember why it is written.
You are not to blame.
Let my skin keep its faces
For when my own is no longer revealing,
How will you know what I thought,
How would you know what I was feeling?

I feel so tired when you leave
My heart pushes blood through my body so loudly
I'd just as soon die as sleep
But my cheeks are still flushed red
And I remember that you'd be sad if I was dead
I can't think of a time I am more alive
Than when I'm with you
Living lucidly, but still wanting more
We're so young and so ******* bored
And I can't decide who's more adored
And I almost can't bare it anymore

I cannot contain my fear of death,
Or rather my fear of disfigurement;
My skin refuses to stay clean,
regardless of my constant cleansing.
I am marked and pocked,
a map of wounds and stains.
I am everything red
and nothing clear;
even my tears displace pure color.
I fear the loss of my special normalcy
of which I am barely confident.
My first defense is also my first impression,
and I can already feel the distaste.

It disturbs me but I enjoy it;
This chill down my spine.
Though that's hard to admit.
Is it your fingertips,
Or just my imagination?
The feeling traces to my hips.
I'm supposed to feel some kind of high,
instead I begin to feel sad
And I don't know why.

When did my body become the top manufacturer of tears?
A broken wind-up toy, taking one step at a time
I feel that thinking about the future is only a recognition of my fears
And the past is just a canyon of worn stone and salt
Waiting is becoming weightless
I'm losing my center of gravity,
My heavy atmosphere making everyone faceless
Depersately using you as a replacement
Color is becoming dull
But this does not scare me as much as you
If I lose you, I lose it all

You make me wish I was a better artist.

I could do so much more.

My mind is a room of scattered papers;
Crumbled up suicide notes hidden
Beneath thousands of love poems,
with ink bleeding through
from this all-compassing missing you
until I'm left with only black.
Now the floor is stained,
and my hands are stained,
and I think even my lips are tainted.