shattered glass
and empty pill
bottles are
scattered cross
the floor, blood
stains and the
realization that
he’s never going
to come back
for more, an
angel in disguise
as peach puke
skies litter her
crossweb veins,
sadness drapes
her eyes shut
as home becomes
a shallow grave

young love, have you forgotten to remember me? i am miles away from happiness and still dreaming of your lips. the cigarette taste, hands wandering the soft curves of my skin. but it seems that i’m alone again, and you want her instead.

i think that love has been lost on me. all things that begin blooming in potential seem to fall into waste these days. soil and ash. dust and death. and it’s not fair because i miss you, and i want you here by my side. i watch the others-smiling, happy, glowing-and wish that could be mine.

perpetual happenings, like rain sliding down my window and discarded filth on city streets, is what i often akin us to. our daring hands and youthful eyes got too caught up in the carefree dosages of first love. perhaps our parents taught us otherwise, but to this day i cannot remember. because when you entered my life like a revelation, it split into two parts. the before, without you. and the after, all you. the saddest thing being, i no longer know the girl who never worried about seeing ghosts after people left.

there’s a gun in my hand
(metaphorically speaking)
and i wrote this for u,
every last tear and laugh
and droplet of blood that
you drew out of my flesh,
blades for kisses while
the drugs reached your
veins-down the rabbit
hole you went once
again; and maybe i
should be sorry about
it, perhaps loving you
was just as mad as the
pills you swallowed,
because all i seemed
to be was a game
that you made, but
there’s a gun in my
hand, and it won’t
go away

here’s to the days it seems as though love is hiding in plain sight. a forgotten warmth, promising all things to be whispered behind nervous palms underneath the moon. the question is written inside her eyes clear as day, a flash of hurt crossing their bridge when she’s pushed to the distant regions of his mind for another. roses are her favorite flower and maybe he’s not one for clichés. the streets are empty now, the distance between them measured in trees. but their branches still do not cross.