i've skinned me knees and i've watched them bleed. i didn't do it on purpose, it just happened when i fell for you.

the inside of me is overgrown with moss and kudzu.
tell me i am an issue,
cut me down and yell timber.

don't make it a question
make it an exclamation.
a statement of the things you've destroyed
to make room for something new,
but not bright eyed.

i am an overgrown tree
with roots too far into the darkness
of the cool dirt-
smell the musky scent of my bark
after the rain.

even if the rain couldn't wash this away,
at least your ax stopped it
from growing.

no matter how low to the ground
you cut me down
i will still have
my roots.

i'll paint stars on your ceiling
to keep you close to heaven
even heaven wasn't enough
to make you want to stay
if you want hell's fire
i swear i'll burn hotter
i'll give you so much love
it'll wash your sin away

I was fifteen when you were sixteen, I knew you were trouble and that's what I liked about you.
My mother would hate it.. but we always got away with doing bad things.
Sneaking alcohol and stumbling down traintracks.
Tell me why I couldn't know you now? You don't exist in my world anymore.. your cashmere skin and eyes the color of some burnt thing. But yet so alive.
We would ride around in your mother's car, smoking *** like we shouldn't be..
Out after midnight like we shouldn't be...
having ***.. like we shouldn't be.
But we didn't care because as long as it feels right, do it, eh?
And oh did it feel right. I think you'll always be a memory to me.
One of the best memories.
The only memory I need, the only memory I have of you is warm summer thunderstorms and mischief. What did we know?
We were only in tenth grade... but like my mother says,
"you think you have it all figured out".


Maybe we did.

you use to read me like a book
making up different stories about me that were true
for you told me i reminded you of your favorite character
they were someone who had dreamed of being with
and i was them, the perfect specimen in your eyes
i was the story you had been craving to change, to edit
you wanted to me to be your happy ending
but i wasn't
for i was me and not them
and you didnt like that
so you decided to close the book
ending the story suddenly

you stole the oxygen from my lungs
you were so breathtaking, i quite literally couldn't breath
you watched as my face went blue, me reaching out, struggling for breath
and yet you just stared as if you were satisfied
that i was suffocating right in front of your eyes

you never let me breath again

some days I look at my wrists and see the almost invisible scars that hardly show but are still there.
it's funny how something that is only triggered within a moment will stick with you for the rest of your life.
it's like a mark telling you, look what you've overcome.
but at the same time
it almost looks inviting.
hey! one more scratch won't hurt..
right?

but what is it that makes me hurt so much that I need to see and feel the pain in some other place than in my head and my heart?

why am I still broken?
is it him? is it them? is it the rumors and the reputation? is it the broken love and the broken heart? is it the longing for home?
I'm broken
and I don't know why.

I want to blame it on him but I'm the only one to blame.
it's all on me
me.
me.

I wonder if people can see my scars.
do they notice them when my arms get red and they stand out like white stripes?
what do they think?
I hope that they care
but who am I to think that they care?

does this stigma define me?
what defines me?
should these lines really be considered stigmatic?

right now it's me against the world
and whenever I look at those scars
that's why I feel a trigger

because when it's you against the world, you feel alone, ashamed, misunderstood, sad
sad.
sad.