No longer kissable
Not soft and plush
Cracked and sensative
Stinging inside
Layers ripped off
Simply unavoidable
Chapped lips are like my life

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

Me
I quickly tap my screen to respond to your message
"I'm absolute garbage and I love you."

You
Your fingers softly brush against the keys as you type out your reply,
"You're absolutely beautiful garbage and I love you more."

Me
I thought that things would be different with you; you were so much more compassionate
"I think I'm in love with you."

You
You hesitate as you read my message, unaware of the stars that were forming in my mind at the mere thought of you
"I'm not in love with you."

Me
I read the message with my brimming eyes and soon enough, I hear the explosions in my ear of the galaxies that once formed when you told me I was an unexplainable force of nature that everyone was wary of.
I also hear the slow thudding of my heart in my ears before everything fades away and becomes numb.

You*
You sit there, quiet and in deep thought
You heard the planets imploding all the way from your bedroom
But all you did was shrug, shake your head and turn up your music.

i'd like to say that poetry could be my profession
but that would be like saying
that spewing my emotions and dark thoughts
across the shelves of a bookstore
is a profession.
i could never make someone clean that up.

(and still face them again)

The world wants to condition my heart
To conform my soul into a blank slate
Molding with experience and disappointment
Gradually shaping until it is frozen in stone.

Motionless, empty of emotion
Paralyzed by society
Left to view the beauty from outside
Through jaded and cynical eyes
Never allowed to experience depth of love I so long to feel

Cursed to be a by stander
Constantly searching
People watching
Longing, yearning for fate to step in
Waiting for what seems like eternity

Slowly sculpted into a statue of my former self
Void of color
Drained of hope or inspiration

All the love stored away for that "one day" is gone
Frozen in ice
Cold to the world
Resolved to dwell in my prison of solitude
Away from betrayal and lies
Never again to feel
Letting no other soul close to mine.