From the time the heart first knew how to feel, and the eyes distinguished rain from tears, few have hidden behind the walls within me. Whether they found it a safe place or a jail cell - well, I guess we'll leave that to the imagination. No matter if it was a cell or heaven, the space within always felt alive. Even at my deadest times, the heat within coursed like it knew something more valuable was in store.

Somehow, some way, a wanderer found a pathway in. Had he known better, perhaps he would not have been in the hands of the girl with wisps of flame at her angered fingertips. The burns don't sustain, but the more that's lost, the more it dissolves all other slivers of hope left to grasp.

Fear is the real culprit, you must see. The fear I must face by harboring a false love; a fear of committing my own sins; of breaking my own promises.

I've never understood a "true understanding." Anger can be cooled by the calm, as does the rainbow after the storm. With the storm blown over, his eyes shone bright and revealed his intentions clearly - you can still love with a straight face and a frigid heart.

I've failed to find anything more frightening than making my way through a candle lit house. The eerie shadows the flame casts against the wall seem as if they brush my arms as I pass, raking my skin to make me obey. Even the safety of my own room doesn't prevail in snuffing them out of my head.

It's a shame you were always the house.

That girl is lethal.

She'll drink your poison and fill your cup with her own when you turn the other cheek.

Her hand may be warm, but the flood gates holding back her bitter zeal will only hold for so long. She isn't unbreakable. You should know; you damaged her.

She'll siphon her tears down your throat until you're gagging on your own harsh words.

Never believe a word she says. She was never happy anyway.

"does the sky look odd to you?"

"no; I've been waiting for the day that the clouds would finally part and be able to speak to him for me, for the day that I wouldn't have to fear that a storm would ruin my chance of a kiss, because now the tables have turned. the sky can scream and rain all the words I've never been able to say to his face and I can lean over and whisper 'we're through.'"

He told me his love was like a religion: his heart a god and his embrace a prayer. He told me he'd shed some light on my dim world…

He didn't know that God has never been on my side and the stars had never aligned to answer my prayers. He didn't know that I liked the mind games I played and that a love like his was one to keep distanced.

That cup of coffee that's been sitting too long is more like you than you may think.

It's a little too cold for anyone's liking, and you are as well - but deep down there's heat waiting to be felt, and I know you're clinging on to that.

The bones beneath my skin are burning and oh God, I can no longer tell if it's from the hate I have for me or for "you"

Is this you?

There's seven days worth of apologies but I don't think "you" deserve to hear a breath of them

Is this you?

I'd walk barefoot to "you" even if "you" are the one who put broken glass in my path

Is THIS you?

People are just definitions that are still being written so be careful how "you" finish yours

TELL ME, IS THIS YOU?

"You" are one of those poems that took so long to find something to write about & once I did, it made me wonder why I wasn't able to write you sooner

THIS IS YOU... RIGHT?

So tell me...
Who's the "you" that YOU speak of?