you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars

tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do

you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen

We all know the story of a blade to sensitive skin, hiding an even more emotional soul. What they do not know is how the blade is so out of place. It isn't wanted there. We all know the outcome a sliced arm and a shattered soul.
Its like reading a book and never wanting it to end in fear of finding out the ending, whether they do get together, or whether they did actually die or it was all a dream. We don't want to know, we want to keep imagining their lives and their adventures.
So why is my favourite series written all over my body, but not in a language anyone can understand?

Others can be good
Let me be this
Pathetic scrawls
In a notebook
Let me play again with my
Deamons
Let them take
Over
Let them swirl in the night
Like my tongue in this stale beer

You haunt me with my own impotence
I spend the days trying hard not to regret, trying to forget
But I am lost and confused. And it's not you.
This is me
Without a lover to have and hold
This is me in a restless frenzy
This is the needle
This is the sound of your laughter drilling at my chest.
This is the hit in a bathroom stall
This is my heart cracked open like a walnut.
It is not you
This is me reaching out
in the dark
For the the green of your eyes
This is my sickness
Love like the hot breath of a beast.
Love like a nasty stickiness on my skin
Love like dancing goblins around a burning stake
Love like a dry heat
The sun torching the sun
The sun torching
Icarus'
Wings

'Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.