i want to cry so bad.
as proof that i’m still here,
or evidence of any ability to feel left in my soul.
but i can’t.
trust me i try my hardest,
i put on our song,
and watch our show,
and read the last letter you ever sent.
but nothing works.

it’s funny because when i was a kid,
everyone called me a crybaby.
at every inconvenience,
you could find me in tears.
i miss that me,
the one that cried,
the one that felt.

A river runs red
From my knuckles into the sink.
As I stand there,
Hands dripping.
Washing the evidence of loving you,
Scrubbing the remembrance of the flesh.
Draining into pipes are memories of bodies together,
And mouths full of lies.

Have you ever liked someone so much you regret meeting them?

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

maybe some types of chaos do not have to make sense or unveil some semblance of an epiphany. some types of chaos, you just have to feel. some types of chaos, you just have to lie through.

In the deep corners of 3am,
I find her.

You deserve someone who can look pain in the eye — an insignia of heartbreak with your name written all over it; your trembling sighs — like rust, lingering over their rosegold lips, and still, not forget that they love you.