I don't trust myself enough to write any more.

i get what it's like wanting
to but can't and feeling your
insides churn with the idea
of physical tranquility
just feeling like absolute ****
and just want to pull your
insides out through your
mouth just to see if that
would make a *******
difference at all, to anything
then tying them in pretty
bows and stuffing them back
inside you in any attempt to feel
normal and beautiful and worthwhile
but knowing that in reality,
they'll just churn around inside
until you throw them back up
plus more to leave you heavy
hearted and solemn
and much much worse than before,
a shaking carcass that never
worked successfully. a body
full of bones and barely functioning parts.
liquid drips from wrists and
thighs but the world keeps
on spinning and shying
away from the sun
because no breath taken
by even the most beautiful
of people in your direction
can help it
so you sit there in the corner
feeling more nd more remorse
pile on until you feel so low
you're just a puddle
bleeding out on the
bathroom floor
and that is the best
form you'll ever take*
because it's the only one
you know.

She's like deliquescent caramel,

the cool side of a pillow

        to lay your weary head,

subtleties of springtime &

          warmth in wintertide,

whispering hope upon lush  

        Zephyrus pipe dreams,  

    mellifluous nymph with wings

                 of a butterfly warrior,

softly determined,

    unfailingly true-hearted,

       whilst relentlessly ferocious

  Wise, yet sometimes struts

        blindly in the light,

       as dulcet tones of a cello's

           melodious marmalade

            in sentiment's tender fancy,

she's beauty, charm,

         knowledge, poetry,

               utter strength,

               & humane weaknesses,

she's twisted and ethereal,

           her aura sublimely captivating

     you may covet her body,

            you'll never possess her soul