I was probably halfway through my lunch
when you told me you were leaving.
I laughed, then.
All the times I read aloud to you the poems
made of words that had blossomed
from my eager hands still tingling
from the memory of your skin.
I laughed, then.

It took effort to swallow my scalding microwaved food,
yet the only things burning
were my eyes and your words.

you can't just leave
and expect me
to be okay

i will never be okay.

not after
i've learnt the taste of your lips,
felt the warmth of your embrace,
heard the 3am words you've whispered; my long forgotten words

not after
i've fallen victim to this savagery we call
love

how
could i ever forget you?

you were my greatest inspiration.

"I would say I'm sorry,
for how things ended for us,
but it's not really my fault.
Blame it on my gypsy heart;
that thing just can't settle for one boy,
or even one place,
or even one anything
for too long.

Pity me, instead.
This relentless hopping is making me tired.
Everything I do will only teach me the same lesson of
leaving.

I will never get to taste the fruits of just one forever."

So often he'd go to bed
with ink on his hands;
hands that were always trembling
in fear of the monstrosities
they'd pressed onto innocent paper.

He wondered
why people deemed his creations
beautiful,
when all he could do
was twist and bend and morph his words
into shivers down their spines,
and haunting echoes in their minds.

His way with them was anything
but beautiful.

Staring at his stained hands,
he, too, wondered,
why he was made
such a skilled wielder
of the deadliest weapons.

society (noun):
as of today
where everything has to look pretty
where we tattoo on our own scars
where we take, even from ourselves
where some of us don't belong
where it's a struggle to rise from the bed
where eating becomes difficult
where there is all we'll ever know

I used to be okay with who I was,
until you came,
showed me
perfection,
and made me realise that 
sometimes,
it's better to be nothing than everything you
hate.