I haven't been sleeping much these days because I keep saying your name in my sleep. I like the way it drools out, slow and thick. I think I'm doing it to myself because when I look at you through these sleep deprived eyes - it's like you're an angel, with this halo of light burning all around you that I can't figure out why you always say your so cold.
Bold - and beautiful, your eyes talk to me more in the two syllables it takes you to say baby than the birds do to me in the spring. Ring - it's the phone, and it's you, an it's us, and it's let's, and it's a party; it's a restaurant, or it's you and I with some tap water on your kitchen floor.
And it's heaven, pure heaven, take-you-breath-away heaven, and I've been prayin'. I've been prayin' this doesn't end anytime soon when the moon burns so bright and your hair - it's so light.
And I haven't been sleeping much because I keep saying your name in my sleep.

She gripped the stomach in her talons and pulverized it
   until the victim was gasping for air
and then its jaw dropped open
and saliva spilled out
   as its forehead wrinkled in the most unpleasant of ways
and it sat there in its car
and then it uttered a noise
a noise incoherent and pathetic and gut-wrenching
and in that moment humanity didn't matter
the victim reverted back to its animalistic ways
and tried to **** in air through constricted canals
and it coughed in between its heaving
and spit flew from it's mouth
and its stomach tried to jump from its body
but the trachea wouldn't allow it
and the sobbing continues until the victims head rolls to the side
and it's eyes shut
and it's all over
for now

My problem is I always fight for him.
I feel him pulling away and I dig my fingernails in a little more.
I make sure there's more blood in the room.
And then there's the teeth
and I'm throwing them at him hoping they'll lodge in his shoulder blades.
And then there's the red on my chin, my shirt, seeping into my chest
and I'm looking at him for answers but he's still walking away.

"It hurts" the boy said without moving his lips
"Here," the girl touched her fingers to the boy's eyelids, "let me feel."

And they stayed like that for a long time, in silence, until tears fell from the girl's eyes,
And the boy said, "See?"
And the girl said, "Feel."

The girl felt weighted, but the boy looked lighter
So every time the boy got the heavy look in his eyes
The girl touched them to draw the pain out of him and into her.

He is the middle child, neglected and ignored.

Past lures people into nostalgia and regret and spins them into his web like a spider.
He binds them to their pain.

Future owns faith and hope and holds out a hand for people to grab, but he pulls away at the last minute so they're always stumbling forward for more.

Today is left alone.
He blooms flowers  and spreads fragrances, but the people don't notice.
So he covers the skies and makes them cry ice to say to the people,

"This, notice this, feel this, breath this, live, in this!"

and the people pat each other on the back and say,

"The sun will come out tomorrow."

The entryway to the soul.
The root of warm feelings and kind eyes.
The enemy.

So why had it happened?
Was it a simple mistake derived strictly by folly?
Not a chance.
It was premeditated, but
The words still stammered forward, sharp and jagged.

My poor mouth,
  teeth
Trying to cut sentenced short
  tongue
Gagging on expanded syllables,
  but my larynx
Still snaking words up past
  my uvula

I wished to lap the fragmented sentences back into my empty stomach,
but they had spilled forward,
                                  dried,
                                  and hardened,
like blood pumped through the body too long and finally exposed to outside air.

"She wore a garland of pale blue roses,
and her eyes wept blood."

She had hair like that of black silk,
and her skin was cloaked in a milky-hue.

She had eyes you never remembered the
color of, only the fist that seemed to inflate
within the confines of your throat.

She went on plenty of dates, but the
events rumored to have happened were
never reliable (teenage boys).

She was obsessed with poetry,
always reading in class, but, like most
obsessions, I think it stemmed from jealousy.

You see, everyone thought she merely
loved the poems, but, truly,
she wanted to be one.